That Is the Question
by xinde
Summary: Life is for the living, but the living are also dying. Matt's never really known the difference, at least, until the reaper comes for him in an unexpectedly heavenly guise. This is a story of transformation and rebirth. Please come to it with a serious but not too serious mindset. [Matt/Mello canon with AU elements] [COMPLETE!]
1. Meeting

**Chapter One: Meeting**

**A/N:** _Well, _look who's decided to join us!

Welcome, reader, to _That Is the Question_. Those of you who have attended an English-speaking high school have no excuse for not knowing what the question is. I can't think of anything else particularly witty to say, so hopefully you've read the summary and were sufficiently impressed to continue reading. Some notes about the tale:

In this story, Matt and Mello do not meet until they are nineteen. Mello went to Wammy's, Matt did not. Various other aspects of this story do not follow canon, although it is set in the Death Note universe, and Kira exists.

This story contains yaoi, confusing jumps in thought, extensive dissertation on death, and occasional swearing. You have been warned.

I do not own Death Note.

So, give it a shot. There's only one bullet in Matt's gun – but you'll read about that later.

* * *

**Matt Jeevas, S.A.M.D.**

_Matt: 3:00 p.m., November 11th, 2009_

Driving is one of the funnest things to do in life, after smoking and gaming. Every day _is _a game, a gamble to see whether I make it home alive. I don't _try _to get killed; reckless driving would land me in jail or the hospital faster than the morgue. And I would rather die with fresh LA smog in my lungs.

So I race motorcades down the freeway (never met Hell's Angels, unfortunately), swerve in front of limos on Sunset Boulevard, run red lights and railroad tracks as often as I can… all to no avail. The god of traffic watches over me; I get places faster, but I never get any closer to heaven or hell. Lucky stars, patron saints, none of them guide me the way I want until the day I drive past the Conflagration.

I call it that because it so deserves a capital C, and because the word is close to Congratulations, which is how I feel as I U-turn back to the blaze, or more accurately, do a 180 in place on the deserted street and a victory dance in my seat as I barrel towards my mistress C.

Logically, my smoker's lungs should be acquitting themselves well as I inhale a spray of asbestos and gunpowder (mass manufacture that in aerosol cans and voila, WMD). But… I like nicotine with my fumes, not soot, so I cough halfway to kingdom come before I spy anything resembling a reaper coming for me.

To be sure, this reaper's got a rather progressive fashion statement, progressive being a massive euphemism for slutty. Perhaps the outfit looks so revealing because most of it's been blown to bits? Basically, a zombie wearing tattered black leather and a flattened gas mask with blood trailing rivulets down one side comes tottering around the corner, staggering towards me, and then topples over.

Video games have taught me to shoot zombies; instinct tells me to approach and observe the man-boy-android-thing on the ground.

He could be called pretty, as far as pretty goes for any half-baked, leather-wrapped, rosary-garnished specimen you might encounter. A gymnast's body, milky skin, pale, thin lips, flaxen hair splayed every which way. He looks like an angel from Lucifer's host, the one that watered heaven with their tears or whatever. I only ever paid attention in class when someone was dying, which happened a lot in Romantic poetry. But back to my fallen angel.

His death cab stands ready, keys in the ignition, and I wish I could ride shotgun with him, drive off into a bloody sunset and a moonrise of bleached bones. But the building's already collapsed; there isn't even a doorframe left upright to brain me happily. Sirens wail in the distance, a dirge that reminds me of life and the barely-rising chest beneath my hands. Ghost claws scrabble at my wrist, blue eyes flicker open, and a hoarse voice rasps from the bleeding mouth: "Help me."

He hangs over the edge of a cliff; I could pull him back, but I won't jump into the abyss with him, not without knowing him, who he is, what he is. So I do the next best thing. I drag him back from the edge, deny him the pleasure of dying, which I can't have for myself (this sounds so sexual, right? Behold the twists of the maze called Matt's mind). If I go down, he goes with me. Ha.

I pick him up, none too gently, toss him in the backseat (there I go again with the pedophilic kidnapper look), floor it out of there, reasoning that a comatose Adonis burning in a sketchy warehouse probably hasn't got the documentation a hospital would ask for, and consequently bring him to my own practice. Matt Jeevas, S.A.M.D. (self-acclaimed medical doctor, also sadistic and madly demented).

Just kidding. Angel boy will receive the best care this side of the life-death divide.

* * *

**Note #1: it doesn't get any more inspired than this**

My name is Matt, and I want to die.

I realize that whoever you are, you probably don't know me personally. When I finish writing this note, it will go in the safe in the hidden recess of the wall behind the stack of old suitcases in my closet (why don't I just call it Narnia?), and no one will ever find it. Unless some burglar is skilled enough and really wants to thoroughly strip my place of any valuables. Or unless the FBI has finally caught up to me.

So, assuming you are one of the millions of people in the world that are thieves or FBI (what's the difference?) that don't know me personally, my first statement is pretty out of context.

Why do I want to die? Why would anyone want to, in any case?

It's not really a one-sentence answer. Or one-paragraph, or even one-goddamn-novel. If you're that interested, you'll probably want to sit down and make yourself comfortable. This'll take a while.

* * *

**Note #2: my not-so-tortured past**

I don't know when it started; that's something the shrink always asks when you first start therapy, right? "When did you first notice these feelings?" "Well, I don't know; I think they've always been with me. It's kind of like being born with a third nipple: you know it's not natural, but it's not hurting you, so you just don't tell anyone, and no one tries to fix it."

Yeah, that comparison will really get you taking me seriously. But there wasn't a chance of you doing that anyways from the moment I said 'I want to die.' People's brains just seem to shut off when they hear that, and they think things like, "Oh God, get me out of here," or "You poor darling, what was your childhood like?" instead of listening and rationalizing about what a quasi-suicidal type has to say.

Now that you're listening (or wandering off because my verbosity irritates you; it irritates me sometimes), my childhood was… tolerable. I got born, I got fed and clothed, I got almost killed in a house fire that took my parents' lives, I got stuck with an almost senile great-aunt who had enough wits left to send me to a boarding school but forgot to feed me during school holidays, I got my diploma, I got to make my own way in the world.

There wasn't anything horribly traumatizing in those eighteen years of dependence, no sarcasm intended. People have had worse happen to them. My parents died before I had any memories of them. The boarding school I went to wasn't the kind where they rape the poor orphans or neglect them or otherwise render them emotionally incapacitated. Sure, some of the teachers were a bit dull, and the kids more than a bit, but it's not as if I grew up uneducated and friendless. The library had plenty of books on computer literacy, and the legal boundaries where they left off were resumed by the Internet. Believe me, we budding hackers were all _very _friendly when trying to mooch codes and shortcuts off each other.

(In my defense, I thought the school librarian and I had something going around my eleventh year, but she resigned halfway through the term to elope, rumor had it. So much for IRL relationships.)

An ok life, better and worse than some, so you ask, less sympathetically now, "What's your problem, kid? Why wish for death if nothing's happened to you to make living unbearable?"

* * *

**Note #3: the answer that increasingly appeals**

Fear.

So, I opened a book (o_O IKR? This is the digital age we're in) and read some thought-provoking quotations on the topic of fear.

Take this, for example: "Fear is sharp-sighted, and can see things underground, and much more in the skies." - Miguel de Cervantes in _Don Quixote._

But…

"To conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom." - Bertrand Russell in _Unpopular Essays._

So if I have fear, I'll have X-ray vision, but if I don't have fear, I'll become wise. I'd rather see through walls and get people's passwords, thank you, rather than use my brain so hard to guess what their passwords could possibly be. Of course Russell was unpopular; what silly ideas he had.

"I will show you fear in a handful of dust." - T.S. Eliot in _The Waste Land._

Dust is kind of scary. That Dust Bowl thing in the 1930s was terrific. Oh, I think Eliot was being metaphorical. He was a poet, after all. He meant dust as in we become dust when we're dead. Ah, understood.

I guess that's the main thing for me. Growing up, I was afraid of a lot of things. Solid colors, butterflies, broccoli, spaces that were just right, not too large and not too small, open-toed shoes, plenty of irrational things. Perfectly reasonable things, too: murderers behind the shower curtains, feral cats, pink, dying in a fire like my parents did. One day, I decided I wouldn't be afraid of anything anymore.

There was no tipping point, no monumental epiphany, no one moment in which I squared my shoulders and faced the world head on. Nothing really happens in my life, so for something like that to happen would be a contradiction to my life.

(Did that make sense? Eh…)

I just kind of eased into the lifestyle. Not being afraid of anything means not being afraid of ANYTHING, death and defeat included. If I wasn't afraid of losing, I would always win. If I wasn't afraid of dying, I could live any way I pleased.

Oh yeah, the whole "There is nothing to be feared but fear itself," from FDR. That isn't actually the exact wording, but I'm too lazy to read it all. I don't fear fear. I kick its skinny ass.

So I'm not afraid of dying. That said, I don't make an active effort to kill myself, so I guess it's wrong to say I want to die. Life is kind of a bore, but I'm a bore, too, and I operate on the inertia principle: an object in a certain state will tend to remain in that state unless force is exerted to alter it. So I keep on living, just because I am. I'm sure death will come find me sooner or later; the way I'm living, probably sooner. It puts some fun in life, seeing how much I can tempt the reaper.

* * *

**Cliché Hospital Bedside Dramatic Heartfelt Conversations**

_Mello: 6:00 p.m., November 14th, 2009_

It's really dark right now…

Oh, that would be because my eyes are closed.

I'm not normally this slow.

I open my eyes, and no one is here.

'Here' is hard to qualify; I can't really deduce my location from the patch of ceiling I can see without moving any part of my body, all of which aches like I've been run over by sixty-seven humvees. Plus, I only have one eye and one ear; it seems the entire left side of my face is bandaged. Incidentally, my nose has escaped all damage; I'm waking up to the aroma of cigarettes in the room.

"Oh, you're awake," says a voice to my left.

Four syllables strung together slowly, a monotone, middle C. Male, about my size, listless, less than happy. Great first impression?

Then a torso covered in stripes and a headful of dull copper hair slides into view.

I hate stripes. Either be one color or be the other. Make up your mind, you dithering fool. Black or white? Good or bad? Life or death?

And then the hair like dried blood. The kind of stains that never come out; you wouldn't believe how many outfits I've had ruined that way. All in all, not much of a charmer.

"Who are you?" I manage, because feeling like I'm ripping my jaw apart.

"Someone who doesn't really know why he's helping you."

Well, that's lovely. I suppose I can see why he'd keep his name to himself, what with all those damned Kira supporters -

Kira.

Fuck.

"Yeah, I'd introduce myself properly, but you could be Kira. Not that you should have any reason to kill me, seeing as I'm the reason you're alive. But of course, if you were Kira, your atavistically evolved sense of altruism would lead you to kill me anyways. Bite the hand that feeds, you know. Not that I've actually given you anything to eat. Yet."

Ha. Ha.

Synopsis: I woke up in a stranger's bed (ah, if only things were as simple as a one night stand), some redheaded zebra relative popped up and spouted some nonsense, and who the fuck am I supposed to trust.

Never anyone except myself, and before, that was ok, but right now I'm fried as flounder and I don't have any money or subordinates or chocolate (CHOCOLATE) and where is my gun and shit I've probably got a ton of split ends goddamn can't breathe can't breathe can't -

* * *

**Interlude**

_Matt: 7:00 p.m., November 14th, 2009_

Kid finally calms down after a few minutes. More like, passes out from overexertion. Fancy that. Four years in a half-rate institution gave me a diploma I could have earned in elementary school, not the knowledge of how to treat hyperventilating third-degree burn survivors. But I try. Since when did I care? Oh right, since I picked the rag doll up in a once-in-a-blue-moon effort to drag someone else down with me into this morass called life. Sharing is caring. At least my bout of non-apathy has passed, else I might have had the energy to kick him out again, and even I'm not that coldblooded.

He probably won't be fully charged again for an hour or two, so I decide to rest easy with a smoke and some screen time. Yeah, I watch the news. Yeah, actual TV is so last year. Yeah, I don't give a fuck. I do give a fuck, however, when some pinheaded reincarnation of Hitler decides to play God and take away everyone's right to choose their own end. Stupid twerp just killed off three more company heads convicted of fraud. He's striking closer to home now; that makes twenty-two executed embezzlers this month alone. One more month, and the yearly total could reach a hundred.

"Damn you, Kira," I mutter. "Just leave me alone. I'll be gone whether you do it or not, so just let me do my thing."

"What is it that you do, precisely?"

Mother of Zelda, I was not expecting to be answered. Is Angel Kid even supposed to be able to get up at this stage? He looks like the lovechild of Hitler's ideal and an Egyptian mummy leaning heavily on the wall outside the spare bedroom.

Oh yeah, I should tell you. My three room apartment has two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a central living-gaming-TV-watching space with an adjoining eating-cooking-burning-stuff kitchen area thing. Just so you know; I didn't know where else to mention it.

And is it really legal for him to look as good as he does three days after being roasted into a medium rare steak? At least he's not still wearing his dead cow outfit to complete the image; most of it was ruined, so I just slapped my last pair of clean sweats on him (not that my definition of clean means much to anyone but me; my clean is 'has been washed within the last three weeks'). Nor does he need a shirt with all the bandages wrapped around his torso, and fuck do those sweats look good low on his hips. Doesn't need underwear either; I discovered he went without. So really, what do you say to a blonde incubus standing like that in your living room?

* * *

**Shake On It**

_Mello: 7:00 p.m., November 14th, 2009_

I'm not exactly the paragon of virtue myself. My rosary barely weighs anything, around my neck or on my soul. Kidnapping, extortion, murder, been there, done that long ago. After a while, you stop thinking of things in terms of right and wrong. You only think: _can I do it?_ And lately for me, it's only been _how soon can I do it?_ And if I have to dirty my own hands and consort with criminals, I will.

This is different, though. I'm completely lost; who the fuck is this guy, what does he have to do with Kira, and what does that have to do with me?

"What is it that you do, precisely?"

Instead of answering, he's fucking checking me out… last time I checked, Kira didn't yet have enough free time to pass judgment on perverts.

I clear my throat; he snaps out of it.

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies."

And he's a smartass on top of that.

"Right back at you, ginger. If that's the case, I'll ask myself the question and answer them as I am able."

"Go for it."

"You sure you want me to?"

He gestures lazily to the seat next to him. "Make yourself comfortable."

"I'm better where I am, thanks."

"Suit yourself. So tell me, O wise one, what is it that I do, precisely?"

"You have something to hide, as evinced by your evasion of my question. Most likely has something to do with computers, infiltration, and such."

"Oh, _well _spotted," he snorts. "I can't believe you figured that out just by observing my home décor."

I roll my eyes at the dozen-odd laptops scattered over every flat surface in the room, plus the several miles of wire nest cushioning them.

"You have a problem with Kira, presumably because he's targeting your kind now. You live and work alone."

He looks up, the TV broadcast blaring in the silence.

"You brought a stranger of dubious background into your home, suggesting little chance of you having any friendly visitors. The nature of your work is solitary, as people in your field live to betray others."

"And yet you've put your trust in me."

I shrug; the motion sends needles of pain through my left shoulder and side. "I haven't been conscious for most of it." Although why he'd saved me _was _a question that had been lingering in my thoughts for several minutes now. "Tell you what. Unless you mind continuing to help me without knowing why, I have a deal to propose."

He raises an eyebrow, sparse and thin on a narrow ridge, probably wondering at my massive display of unprofessionalism. In the mob, when you see a potential resource, you stare at it like a kid with no money stares at chocolate in the candy store display. Considering all angles, tracing all escape routes, planning how to get the goods without paying up. But… I'm really not in a position to dither about. There is a time for plotting and a time for just rolling with my instincts, and that time is now.

"Let's hear it."

* * *

**A/N:** You made it! *hugs* Now review please and thank you.


	2. Proxy

**Chapter Two: Proxy**

**A/N:** I have no expert knowledge of all the James Bond stuff Matt does in this chapter. A professional would probably tell you it's all BS. But you know… use your imagination and believe that Matt can really do everything I make him do.

I don't own Death Note.

* * *

**Note #4: newlywed**

Kira's a bitch.

He kills criminals like me, most of whom don't want to be killed. Again, no, I do not _want _to die. I just want to live while being close to death. Smoking, reckless driving, and breaking and entering are all ways I employ to approach death. But Kira is one way that I can't control.

If I die, I want it to be with full knowledge that I let myself die, that I pulled the trigger or stepped in front of the train. I don't want to be some mindless animal waiting for the slaughter. I can't take my own life at this point because that would be bowing to Kira's pressure and letting him control me. Basically, Kira needs to go away so I can live and/or die in peace.

And now it looks like I've got myself a darling little tool to further that purpose. The kid - Mello - the kid's crashing at my apartment indefinitely, working out of my resources to anticipate Kira's bastardly moves and get ahead of him.

My, do we move fast. He's already scavenging through my fridge and declaring it a biohazard zone. Soon it'll feel like we've been married for years. *sarcasm* And no fair, apparently we skipped the honeymoon part? Not to mention the whole, er, first date, getting to know each other thing that normal people do.

No need. All we've got is Kira as our matchmaker, and we're set. Now I need to hide this before he gets suspicious of me writing with actual pen and paper.

* * *

**Ethiopian, Starfish, One Night Stand**

_Mello: 3:12 p.m., November 14th, 2009_

I ask his name after we finished our negotiations. He just smiles, that impish spark playing about his lips (for the love of God, _why _am I noticing them?) and says, "Matt."

"…"

"Yep, Matt as in that's what I go by, Matt as in that's what's on my credit card statement, Matt as in that's not what's on my birth certificate, Matt as in what's the _matt_er Mello, you look under the weather?"

If that was a nerdy movie reference, I don't get it. I'm too busy mentally spluttering at how he knows my name.

"Easy does it, Mello, you need to lighten up. Here, this might help."

I catch whatever he's throwing at me reflexively, and for such a dangerous object, he hasn't any qualms about chucking it across the room. Either he knows his way around such objects or he's remarkably naïve about proper handling of lethal weapons. I look down at the gun in my hands and smile. Here is a breath of familiarity.

…and here is my name engraved just under the barrel. Ah, darling, I've missed you.

…and here comes a wave of dizziness, like we're underwater and everything in the room is swimming like a swarm of LED-equipped anemone and octopi. I clutch onto the nearest object that seemed comparatively stable, which happens to be the back of a chair draped with this ugly-ass fur vest that exhales smoke like its owner across the room. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do to stay on my feet short of faceplanting into the odorous fabric.

"Woah, there, you probably shouldn't be up and about for so long in your condition." A hand grips my elbow, steadying me and dragging me off the chair. "It's only been what, three days? You should be in bed, princess, with a pumpkin carriage and six mice and a white rat for your butler… oh wait, that's Cinderella, isn't it? Is she blond? I think so, but your hair's prettier than hers, so…"

_Three days? I've been out for three days? As in, Kira's had three days to snoop about looking for any photo evidence of me? _

As in, I have to get to New York and wring Near's neck until he gives me my damn picture. I would start for the airport now, but someone is babbling in my ear and steering me to bed with an iron grip.

"…and you should change your bandages twice a day now that you're conscious enough to keep track of days. I'd give it a week before you can take them off permanently. Heads up: you're going to have some major scarring. You're moving ok, so I think no nerves have been damaged, but it's going to look ugly…"

Goddamn. Goddamn, forget Near. Bed, now, and then airport. The mattress looks really far away from where I'm standing, but I hit it with more grace than I estimated I had, courtesy of Mr. Won't-Shut-Up behind me.

"… I'd kiss you goodnight, you know, just a motherly thing, not an I'm-gay-for-you thing, but it's three in the afternoon."

"Go 'way," I mumble into the pillow. Sleeping on my right side feels completely unnatural, but I stick it out.

Near, bed, kiss, Matt. I haven't got any room in my heart just now. Just sleep…

XXX

It's dark outside when I wake, and for a moment I'm afraid I've slept away several days again. But the small red numbers in the corner of the alarm clock announce it is still the 14th of November, 2009, 9:23 p.m.

I stretch generously, and it's a wonder what six hours of dreamless sleep can do for a person. They can even make me temporarily forget what I need to do right now.

"Change your bandages? Take a hot bath? Sleep some more?"

…I must have said that last bit out loud. That, or Matt can read minds. I wouldn't be surprised; all that junk occupying every available space of his room must do _something._

"You should follow your own advice," I say to the figure silhouetted in the doorway. "Even from here I can smell what you had for dinner."

"Really?"

"Really. Give me a moment to sniff it out-"

"Ethiopian takeout," he interrupts, tapping his foot idly. "What else can you smell? Mind telling me the exact longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates of the restaurant, or where the ingredients came from, or the last time the delivery boy took a shower?"

A viper of sarcasm and a hypocrite about cleanliness to boot; should be a great housemate. "Point taken," I concede. "But I need to catch a plane, so I'll have to temporarily discard your advice, besides the first one, which is even a compromise." I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up, intending to rip the bandages on my face off like so much silly putty, only to find out the hard way that they stick more like starfish.

Which, in case you aren't familiar with marine biology, basically never let go once they sucker onto something.

Matt watches me struggle for a bit and decides to rub it in some more. "Assuming you survive seeing what's under the bandages, what are you going to do without a fake ID when you get to the airport?"

_1. I'm assuming you can whip one up for me; am I asking too much?_

_2. More importantly, what do you mean 'What's under the bandages'?_

I tear into the wraps more vigorously; he finally steps away from the door and reaches out a hand to help. "Relax, Mello, it's not like you're leprous or oozing purple slime underneath. You just kind of look… kind of burned up."

I don't bother to acknowledge the inadequacy of his description. Finally, the last of the gauze comes off. There's a mirror above the head of the bed (why _there? _Is it for indulging your narcissistic side while fornicating?), and I face myself.

"Huh," I say lightly. "Interesting."

Would it be poetic for me to say my face looks like a battlefield, or more accurately, an atomic bomb detonation site?

Ugly. There's no other word for it. Ugly with a capital U for YOU, just in case I can't recognize who the face in the mirror belongs to.

He can't know what I'm feeling; this face shows nothing, not the choked sob threatening to slip from my throat, not the wrinkling of my nose that means I'm going to cry, because I'm _not, _because this left eye probably _can't, _not anymore, can barely _blink, _with my skin feeling this raw and sandpapered.

But I suppose everything and nothing gives it away, because he lets go of my arm and leaves my clenched fist dangling at my side, steps back, lets me have a moment (why do I have to be so _weak_), and clears his throat softly.

"So… where were you planning on going, and what were you going to do there?"

The mockery has left his voice, I note. Is he sorry for me? Who _would _be, least of all myself?

"New York," I say to his feet; that's right about where my heart is at the moment. "To visit an… acquaintance."

"Uh-huh," he says, maybe half-believing me. "Are we talking acquaintance as in drug lord, or mercenary, or one night stand? Or, dare I believe you can actually form real friendships?"

"…childhood friend," I grit out with some difficulty, because the burns restrict my jaw movement, not because my voice is cracking or anything like that.

"So you haven't been a loveless child all your life. Good to know."

I shudder at his word choice.

"That's not your business-"

"I beg to differ. Whatever is so urgent that you need to go galloping across the country before you can even stand must involve Kira, and as such involves me."

Nosy bastard. "If I tell you, will you give me the necessary for me to go?"

"Nope. I'll just go in your place."

"…what?"

XXX

Three days later, he's on a plane to New York, and I'm hopelessly back in bed with a thermos of hot chocolate, an ice pack against my cheek, and a spun-glass promise ringing in my ears: "I'll be back before you know it."

* * *

**Tomorrow, Tomorrow**

_Matt: 3:35 p.m., November 17th, 2009_

Mello's got immense trust issues; I could have flown to I don't know, Namibia and back in the time it took to convince him to let me go. To New York, not Namibia.

Or… his concerns could be perfectly rational, from a normal person's point of view, which I happen to lack. I suppose most people _wouldn't _send someone they just met as a proxy to a long time rival to recover sensitive information. Not in these troubled times, no.

I glance around the terminal we've arrived at in LGA, direct my steps to casually slide out of the security cameras' view, and wonder if I should take the shuttle, a taxi, or someone else's car to get downtown. A taxi would be more anonymous than the bus with other passengers, but I hate close quarters and strangers. Sigh… shuttle it is then. Hotel Mulberry sounds decently low-key, and upon iPhone research, I find it to be far away enough from Mello's contact to avoid immediate suspicion should shit go public. I look out the window as the shuttle starts to move and think about how I got here.

XXX

"I will _not _let you go," Mello hissed.

"That makes two of us," I said. "So how are you going to stop me?"

"Easy, by not telling you where you're supposed to go. You can wander around the city until you get your throat slit for all I care."

He wasn't a trusting one, no sir. The Mafia will do that to a person. I, on the other hand, experienced no such betrayals in my childhood, except that skanky librarian, I guess. You could say I can't afford to trust so freely, but I think my life would just get shorter from stress if I suspected everything that moves, like Mello does.

"Nice try, but I'm a few steps ahead of you. I'll have you know that I know that you're meeting Near to retrieve a photograph of yourself."

I watched as his fortress crumbled under the onslaught of panic.

"If you want to know, check the hidden compartment in your gun."

He wisely didn't bother, as I held a copy of the compartment's contents before his eyes. A sheet of A4 folded in thirty-seconds, on which was scribbled the following sentence:

My face is too close up in that picture I gave to my friend; it's ugly. I'll get it back from him if I have to put out his eye to do it.

He paled and said, "Touché."

XXX

I get off at Mulberry and wince at the décor: lots of chairs, tables, dressers in somber shades of mahogany, impossibly intricate carvings on doorframes that did absolutely nothing, the like. Still, I can appreciate a furniture-intensive room over a modernly stocked one with nothing to hide bodies or barricade doors should the need arise. You never know what situations you might run into.

Ahem, I'm back. That was the paranoid Mello side of me speaking just then. See? He's already growing on me. He's so paranoid that even after I decoded his cryptic message and proved he had nothing left to hide, he still tried to keep information from me.

XXX

"I heard about Near through the underground grapevine. He's not exactly national headlines, keeps down low because America's going to succumb to Kira any day now. I only got news of him through a particularly convoluted branch."

No response.

"Oh come on, you don't have to tell me how you know him or why he has your picture. Just tell me how to get to his 'eye.' It's probably a girl, right? Weakest link in the chain. I might be able to look her up…

"Look, Mello, it could be weeks before you look human enough to go out, during which time I've got to fabricate documents and a history for you. My understanding is that your name's been leaked to Kira?"

At last, something, if not coherent. "I… yes… how?"

"You sleeptalk."

XXX

Fortunately, the heavy paneling on these walls looks like it'll muffle any somnoratory tendencies I may have developed. I don't need to reveal anything life-threatening or ego-shattering to my neighbors. I can't say Mello blabbed anything I could blackmail him with, but there was a lot of classified info.

Three names turned up the most: Near, Halle, and Kira. Given the lack of breathy moans or impassioned cries during his sleep, I doubt any of these were involved in particularly pleasant dreams of _that _nature. Kira was Kira, Near was Near, so was Halle the eye he needed to put out?

XXX

A sharp inhalation, a weary exhalation of breath, he slumped back onto the bed. "Fine," he said, resignation in his entire posture. "Fine, for being such a smartass, I'll tell you as much as you need to know, nothing more."

I cheered inside.

"But… it'll take a while."

I spent the rest of the night and next morning listening to fantastic tales of death gods, death notes, death threats, and suicidal escape routes.

_Holy hell, _I remember thinking. _I'd give anything to be him. Death follows him like a bee to flowers._

I would have childishly peeked over my shoulder to make sure that a swarm of bees wasn't buzzing at the door, but my mind was occupied with wondering why I'd chosen such a virile simile. Huh. Well, he _was _attractive, even all bandaged up like this. Even without the sexy death aura he exuded at the site of the explosion.

XXX

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I'll meet Halle Lidner.

Tomorrow, I'll meet Near.

Tomorrow, I'll meet Mello.

XXX

"I'm leaving tomorrow," I said shortly.

He looked up from his coffee, in which he'd been trying to read the future, or at least the name of his soul mate.

"'Kay."

"Ell-em-en-oh-pee," I sang, screwing up my eyes in blind passion. "Kyu-arr-ess-tee-yu-vee-dubya-ecks-wai-and-zee."

I opened my eyes for a reaction, not that I expected any from Mr. Lady-Gaga-Poker-Face. To my surprise, he looked thoughtful rather than brooding.

"Everything changes," he said. "Pluto isn't a planet anymore, polar bears are losing their habitat, Michael Jackson's dead, the gay marriage law is constantly flip-flopping, and I am looking to be out of the race to catch Kira. But… the alphabet has not changed."

"Of course it hasn't. If they added new letters, the alphabet soup company would have to rewrite its recipe."

He rolled his eyes and said, "Figures you would have a wisecrack comeback to a serious statement."

But as I turned into my room to make last minute preparations, I could've sworn he cracked a grin.

What _did _I put in his coffee that morning?

* * *

**Action Sequence**

_Matt: 6:19 p.m., November 18th, 2009_

Bagging Lidner has disappointed me, I have to admit. I expected better of an ex-CIA, but she doesn't even check her shoes for booby traps in the morning. As she walked home yesterday, I made sure the floor just inside the door of the lobby was smeared with… shall we say, the contents of an upset stomach after too much alcohol. I did not produce them myself, and I don't feel like remembering the exact distasteful method of procuring them. Anyways, good timing, janitor hadn't been by yet, and distribution of substances was such that she couldn't avoid stepping in the muck.

Of course, secret agent ladies are always spotlessly dressed; you have to be in order to seduce - ah, get intelligence on your target. Lidner had plenty of back-ups in the event that her newest pair of suede got ruined, courtesy of yours truly. I know because I broke into her apartment earlier and made a few alterations.

Today, I'm playing a clumsy pizza boy waiting in the lobby because supposedly Lidner ordered a veggie with a thin crust and extra olives. She's not home, so I'm waiting for her because I don't want the pizza to be stolen. At least, that's my cover story. I can't share how I got my hands on a thin veggie plus olives because Domino's will be after my soul, and even though I could buy them out ten times over, I feel like staying under the radar.

Here she comes. Lovely lady, just one gun, inside her coat, I can tell by her posture and how her right arm is pressed slightly closer to her side under the pretext of holding her briefcase close… so she's left-handed. But I won't take any risks. Here comes my debut.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I call as she's halfway to the elevator. I break into a brisk stride towards her, squeaking across the over-shiny floor. "I believe you ordered this pizza."

She pauses, confusion evident, and I take the chance to trip over a nonexistent twig and let the box go flying.

Rule #1 that they should teach all CIA cadets: never catch something unless you're certain the contents won't hurt you.

Lidner could have had it worse, though. As it is, she drops her briefcase, catches the box by the sides, and unwittingly impales her hands on a dozen spiked needles embedded in the cardboard.

This is really all too easy. Already, she'll be having trouble moving her fingers, and she knows it. It's time for me to exit stage left, climb the fire escape to her window, and prepare for my next moment in the spotlight.

I told you, she doesn't check her shoes for booby traps. Not that _I _do, for that matter; it's not like I'm judging her. I'm just triumphing in my complete control of the situation and the simultaneous exhilarating feeling that everything's going to go to shit if I've missed something. Maybe she changed her shoes without my noticing, maybe she's somehow immune to the poison, maybe she can burn things with her eyes like Itachi in _Naruto _(that guy is SO HOT). Any of those maybes can be the first step toward my death.

I lick my lips in anticipation.

Not two minutes later, she's fumbling at the door with numb fingers and finally throws it open.

"Hi," I say.

She doesn't say a word or step forward thanks to the magnetized surface of her soles sticking to the field under her doormat. _Think, woman. All you have to do is take off the stilettos._

"Who are you?" she asks. Her briefcase dangles precariously from one wrist, her hands too stiff to grasp the handle.

"The name's Matt. A friend of Mello." At a blank look from her, I clarify, "You know, blonde, chocolate, gun? Near's rival? Leather fetish? Diva personality? Ring a bell?"

"I _know,_" she mutters angrily. "But how do I know you're with him? This isn't exactly his style, sticking me with needles and then gluing me to the floor."

"My apologies, Halle Lidner," I say without contrition. "Why don't you ask Near what he thinks?"

She gapes at me, still struggling against the magnetic force.

"My bug sensors are red-lighting you, but they weren't yesterday. Coinkidink, Near must have sent it home with you today."

I guess she hasn't been this outmatched in a while, which leaves me with a sorry view of the competence of modern criminals. "Let's take a walk down to Near's place, shall we? I'll have to turn the magnets off, and then I'd like to borrow your gun. Just for safekeeping, you know? It would be _so _crude to actually point it at you."

And that's how I ended up walking into the SPK headquarters holding a hypodermic needle against Halle Lidner's neck, concealed in my glove. I could see what she meant by Mello's style, but guns are too definitive. One slip of my finger and my target's dead, which means there's no possibility of her killing me. Needles are so much more subtle. Who was it in _Naruto_ that had, like, a million poisoned senbon? Oh right, Akasuna no Sasori. He. Is. Glorious. He takes after me, of course.

XXX

"Hey."

My nonchalant greeting falls rather flat thanks to the guns currently pointed at my nose. *sigh* Chivalric twerps; this is the twenty-first century. Women, at least _this _woman, should be able to defend themselves.

Big Guy's pushing his gun out at me as far as it goes, stance spread on two taut legs. He looks like he's been through a hundred firefights, and it occurs to me that maybe he has. Littler Guy is less professional; I think his arm's actually shaking. I notice with an internal pout that they're all taller than me by at least three inches, more like six inches in Big Guy's case. Except for Littlest Guy. _There_, there's no question.

"Please lower your… weapons," the blob of bleach inside the railroad tracks intones, and I'm slightly gratified to hear the verbal blip inspired by the fact that I'm not holding a gun.

The guys hesitate, and he repeats, "Lower your weapons. We have no reason to shoot Mello's friend; pointing a gun at him is no less rude than if it were Mello himself."

I can see that they don't agree with his idea of gun-related courtesy, as pertains to both Mello and me, but he's got them well-trained. The guns go down, but the tension stays up.

He finally looks up. "Matt, I believe it was."

"Near. Cut the formalities, I'm here on a retrieval mission. Where's the picture?" If he's really a genius, he'll catch up. Or, he'll be there before me.

Seems like it's the latter as he magicks a photo out from somewhere and flicks it at me like a frisbee. I catch it by a grand margin; I haven't had a smoke today, so I'm kind of jittery. I try to compensate for that moment of gracelessness (in front of three secret agents whose whole being speaks of fluid efficiency, for shame) by examining the picture exaggeratedly, upside down, behind my head, in the reflection of my goggles, and all the while marveling at _how he's changed. _

It's like someone put that soft, glowing face into a shredder, glued the jagged pieces back together with all the round edges sheared off, and stuck the result in the freezer for a decade. This is Mello before the world hit him and he hit back.

Some things are still the same, though - that perfect fragility, the bones like eggshells that make you wonder how he doesn't just collapse under the weight of the air. That black-white divide between the neckline and his skin, a contrast like the heaviness of his soul now and the light heart he once carried. And… oh god, I need to stop rhapsodizing. I'm not a fucking poet-philosopher, for heaven's…

I flip the picture over; it says 'Dear Mello' on the back. I don't bother to parse the possible ironies, revelations, lies, and general nonsense that it could mean, though I do feel a faint twinge of annoyance that I'm sure has nothing to do with jealousy.

"So…" I drone, bending the picture between my fingers, "you haven't gone down to Kinko's and made a dozen 2 by 4's to put in your wallet? Maybe pass them around for your lackeys to look at when they're bored?"

_Because they're obviously too old to still have their own prom photos?_

'Lil white shifts a bit and pokes at an errant boxcar. Mello did warn me about the toys, something about taking visual spatial learning to extremes, but I'm reading it more as Freudian regression tactics. I think we'll need to have a little talk later *cough _psychoanalysis _cough*

"I have made no copies," he states.

"Great." I stick it in my vest pocket next to Halle's gun and yawn.

* * *

**Digging for Answers**

_Matt: 6:44 p.m., November 18th, 2009_

"By the way, there's something I want to discuss with you," I say, looking up at the ceiling. "Mello had a lot to say about you."

The kid faces a dartboard hung on an easel some four yards away. His back is to me.

"A lot," he echoes.

"A lot… of stuff only an insider would know." Just the barest hint of a threat there. Easy does it. "But of course, you trust your men completely. They deserve to know everything, right?"

I see the indecision flaring in the way he rolls a dart restlessly between his fingers. He can't have missed my gradually less subtle threats and the slight against Halle's trustworthiness.

"For example, Mello told me that you…"

*cue collective dramatic intake of breath and hold*

"…like your cereal dry."

All: …

"And you've been dousing him in milk, haven't you, Halle? Woman, do try to restrain your motherly instinct; you're far too young for that."

Predictably, she's fuming; the muscle man looks ready to defend her honor and shoot me. The pretty boy seems to be catching on, though, if his narrowed eyes and lax grip on his gun are anything to go by.

Near, of course, saw through me as soon as I started talking. Mello _did _tell me about Near's breakfast preferences, if only to explain to me why he was drowning his Cheerios the morning I left. But he could have told me so much more, which is what Near fears.

Haha that rhymes.

"Rester, Lidner, Gevanni, will you please leave us alone until further notice? And turn off all audio feeds to this room."

And… he takes the bait. His goons don't look so happy, but they file out without protest. Near still sits and twirls his dart. I stay where I am. A guy like him appreciates his space. I mean, there's a friggin' railroad track circling him. His playpen isn't to keep him in, but to keep others out.

We're not just talking physical space. The emotional barrier between him and his closest associates is the width of a thousand heartstrings.

What a grand metaphor. It sounds like some Chinese proverb, Confucius and Lao Tzu and all.

Honestly, though. He's not emotionally retarded. He reads people better than most; it's in his line of work. He caught Gevanni's look and knew it was time to dismiss them. He's not autistic; he can tell emotions and nonverbal and killing intent. But when it comes to empathy, there's a complete disconnect. He stamps on Halle's bruised ego, ignores Gevanni's doubts, and denies Rester the need for reassurance from his commander. For all his tiny socked feet, he's got quite a kick. I'll be on the receiving end any moment now; I might as well strike first.

"Of course, their not being here doesn't make much of a difference," I say lightly. "Mr. Rester was memorizing my speech patterns the moment I opened my mouth. A handy skill, lip reading."

He says nothing but only hunches down a little closer to the floor in a disturbing parody of old age. Since he seems content to let me begin, I dive right in. "What is your relationship with Mello?"

He throws two darts, both hitting the ring just outside the bull's-eye, but on opposite sides of the circle.

_Sworn rivals._

"Were you two always like that?"

A dart, deliberately thrown off target, lands in the farthest ring from the center.

_No._

"Were you once best friends?"

Hesitation. Then, a dart thrown dead into the center.

_Yes._

Another dart, thrown without my prompting, sails over the target and land several meters behind it. I stop short, wondering what could have incited such a display of force. He hit the bull's-eye, and then missed it altogether. He could mean a vigorous 'no,' or…

_Above and beyond, surpassing bounds, more than friends._

I don't know what to believe. I can only keep asking.

"What happened?"

Silence and stillness. Seems that's the last of the freebies. I'm going to have to work for my answers now.

I glance at the screens papering the walls. They're all muted. Most of them follow international news stations whose reporters' lips move soundlessly in time to the train still chugging around Near's railroad. One station is on a commercial break. Diamonds hang from every viable surface on a woman's body, including places unseen, no doubt, and gothic, golden letters advise me to 'Make No Mistakes with K's Jewelry!'

It's a bit of a stretch, but my brain does the work.

_Make no mistakes… with K's jewelry… jewelry… K… mistakes… no… hm._

I think back to my premonitory recitation of the alphabet to Mello. Jay-kay-ell-em-en-oh-pee.

Ell.

L.

A lonely black letter on a screen. The white and the black. The rivalry, the pure opposition. The familiarity that they must have once had, shattered by that one letter. My brain is screaming that I'm jumping to conclusions, that I'm extrapolating far too much from pure lexicological theory, but hey, is it my fucking fault if the world's greatest detective had an obsession with the letters smack in the middle of the alphabet?

Is it too much to presume? Can I really imagine Mello 1.0, the one in this picture, settling down on the floor with this ancient boy to build block skyscrapers and discuss quantum mechanics over a friendly glass of milk?

It couldn't have been that long ago.

"What else did Mello tell you?" the dead voice breaks my reverie.

He knows for a fact that Mello told me next to nothing, at least… "Nothing that I couldn't have figured out for myself," I say smoothly. "Anyways, Mello believes in equivalent exchange, so he told me to give you some tips on the Kira case."

He pushes a button on a remote, and the dartboard rolls towards him. As he starts plucking off his darts, I press on. "He said that the notebook he had was owned by a god of death, who lost it to another god of death and came down here to get it. And that death god said that there were some fake rules inscribed in the notebook."

Near doesn't bother to honor the favor with a response, so I know he believes me. I pull Halle's gun out of my pocket.

"Mello says he doesn't want to cooperate with you, but I think the more brains in this, the better," I say. "And you're worth a lot of brains. Lidner has my number."

"Do I?"

Oooh, Ice Queen is back; scaaaary. She must've come running the moment they saw me draw her gun. Now there are three pointed at my head; Rester and Gevanni flank her. All I want to do is go home.

"I won't shoot," I reassure them, "my number's inside your gun, Halle. Why don't you see me out? You can have it back."

She purses her lips but steps forward, keeping her borrowed gun raised until she can shoot me point blank. I know better than to throw it this time and hand it over without a fuss. She turns, and I follow her out.

She stops a few feet short of the front entrance. "Tell Mello I said hi."

I pause, too, struck by the unexpectedness of the request.

"And that I prefer your style to his."

That makes me smile. "I will." I walk forward and out the door, expecting a bullet between the shoulder blades, knowing it won't come, and at the same time, not being sure.

But… if she shoots, I'll never be able to tell Mello hi from her.

_Just you wait, angel boy. I'm on my way._

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! If you like this story, please take a look at my profile; I have more! (I'm allowed to pimp myself in my own author's note, right?) Okay. See you later!


	3. Coexistence

**Chapter Three: Coexistence**

**A/N: **You know what to do: read, smile, review, and let me know what you like and don't like. If there's anything that seems off or is confusing to you, anything _at all, _please tell me. Thank you.

Don't own Death Note, lalala.

* * *

**Impatience**

_Mello: 8:12 p.m., November 18th, 2009_

I hate waiting.

Why does he have to take so long, anyway? All he had to do was book a morning flight, land in New York in the late afternoon, storm in, get my picture, book a red-eye, and be back by midnight. Over and out, one day tops.

I don't actually miss him, hell no.

I hate waiting. I've spent most of my life waiting. Waiting to be born, waiting for my parents to come home, waiting to learn what the court was going to do with me, waiting to get to Wammy's, waiting for the sun to rise so I could go to class and learn to my heart's content, waiting for Near to walk faster so we could get to the library before the comfy seats were taken.

Waiting.

For a while at Wammy's, waiting didn't bother me. While waiting for class to start or for Near to stop dragging his feet, I could think, about trivial things, what was for dinner, the wart on Professor Carr's eyebrow, and worthwhile things, why was the world unjust, what did I want to be when I grew up, did I like Near more than I should. Those worthwhile questions foreshadowed the end of my golden days. At some point, everything had to change, and through no gentle transition.

I could rarely persuade Near to step outside, but that day I succeeded. I went to the length of borrowing the library book with the greatest surface area so he could construct his puzzle on its cover. We sat in the shade of a tree at the foot of the hill, just barely visible from the windows of the house.

"You know, this is where we met one year ago, Near. I'll never forget."

I was new to Wammy's. The other kids were playing football, and I joined in with disastrous consequences. Of all days, he'd chosen that one to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Yes, it's hard for me to forget as well that you almost took my head off when you sent the ball flying too far in completely the wrong direction. If you are going to propose to me, there is no need to mask your intent in loving memories. I will say no anyway."

That was Near to the last. Possessed of adorably blunt sense of humor, sharper than he let on, and adept enough to give me a way out. I balked.

"You're… my best friend," I managed. I could say no more. It was true, but it wasn't the whole truth. I'd never said it before, but there was more I had to say. But I didn't.

"Mello has also been my best friend," he said, rotating the book to get to the other side of the puzzle.

I noticed the third person reference and the present perfect tense, but I dismissed it as one of his quirks. A real friend would have picked up the signs immediately.

Casting around for a less heartfelt topic, I remembered. "Oh, have you heard? L is visiting next week! I've never met him before. Of course, he's the greatest detective in the world, so he must not have a lot of time to visit us…"

I forget the rest of my babbling, but I recall Near's silence throughout. He normally spoke little, so I didn't think much of his reticence. What a curse hindsight is. Aloud, I call him an asocial, friendless sheep, decidedly ironic since sheep come in herds, but in my mind, I know better. He knew even then that L would destroy us. He couldn't have said nor done anything.

After that day, I couldn't stand waiting. Waiting for L to arrive, waiting for him to explain why he had summoned Near and me to speak with him, waiting for him to say that this ranking system was a joke and I didn't really have to become Near's rival. Waiting for myself to say no (I had the option to refuse; no one could force me to become a candidate successor), waiting in vain, because friendship wasn't as strong as something else in me, something called avarice and pride. And after I had said yes (O ye of little faith), waiting for test scores, weekly ranking, L's Christmas presents (I threw up after I ate the first chocolate bar, not because it wasn't good, but because it tasted like broken friendship and unhealthy obsession). And after he died, I waited for opportunities, the right moment to strike, the chance to bust my way to the top, to catch Kira, all for a man who took my time, my friendship, and my mind.

(Gahhhh…)

And now I wait, for my shortlisted, fashion-clueless ally against Kira to come home, for my goddamn face to finish scarring over, for Kira to make a mistake so I can pounce, for my life to really begin.

* * *

**Homecoming**

_Matt: 3:33 a.m., November 19th, 2009_

"I'm home," I call through the door.

No answer. He's really going to make me fish for my keys? You mean not everyone is like me, staying up half the night to open doors for weary souls? Fine. _Fine._

I enter somewhat less noisily than usual and glance around; there's a spot of light under the bathroom door, so he's awake. The door opens as I drop my backpack on the kitchen table. Light illuminates half of a familiar face - the left half, as chance would have it.

"I thought I smelled smoke."

"Not bad," I say around a fresh cigarette. "You're better than my smoke detector."

"That's because you disabled it."

"So I did." I start emptying my baggage of the essentials for living; it contains more computers than clothes. "Pray tell what gave it away?"

I'm not really waiting for an answer; untangling all these cables is higher on my priority list at the moment.

"I tried to cook."

I nearly spit my cigarette out. "What?"

"I tried to cook," he repeats, tugging irritably at the rosary around his neck.

"I mean_, what_ did you try to cook? There's nothing in the fridge."

"Yes, there is. Or was. There were some eggs whose sell-by date was a week ago, so I decided they were ok to boil."

"But you used the gas range with the broken coil, and it overheated?" I guess. "No one could possibly get boiling eggs wrong."

He glares; I can't resist more jibes. "Can't I leave you alone for two days and trust you to take care of yourself? You'll get an infection if you go around with your burns uncovered."

He positively pierces me with killing intent, and I realize what is so strange about this scene.

We're standing here in the half-light, it's pushing 4 a.m., I'm needling him about health like I'm one to talk, and he's childishly resisting my babying. We don't mention Kira or my trip. It's almost romantic.

Is this what it means to have someone to go home to?

I mentally slap myself; I don't mean it in _that _sense, of course not. Just…no. I slap the table to clear the silence and my thoughts. "All right then, princess, back to bed," I say, even though his attire suggests he hasn't gone to bed yet. "We'll debrief in the late morning."

"There are still two eggs in the fridge. Don't make too much noise." He turns to shut the bathroom light and melts into the darkness.

I know he really said, "Make sure you eat something, you undernourished idiot. And go to sleep soon. Good night."

How sweet.

* * *

**Passed**

_Matt: 11:18 a.m., November 19th, 2009_

"Here you go, princess. Want me to frame it?"

He snatches the photo grumpily with his right hand. "Give me a lighter."

"Huh? What did I go galloping over to NYC for if it wasn't to get that picture? And now you want to destroy it?" I stick my lower lip out in petulance. "I'm through with helping you save your scrawny neck. Light your own fire. You can even use the stove; God knows I don't need _that _to survive."

He tucks the photo into his pocket impatiently and plunks into a seat at the kitchen table. "Better still, I'll turn on every appliance in the house, fry your electronics, and burn my picture in the blaze. You like?"

"I like the way you think." I swing onto the table itself and sit cross-legged in front of him. "So why aren't you yet bouncing questions off my head about what happened in New York?"

He shrugs, crossing his arms. "If there was anything really important, you would've said it to me last night."

"Oh, you don't know me, do you? I usually let things like that slip my mind until the last minute. Things like 'So I found out that you and Near used to be like this -'" I curl my pinkies around each other "'-and you were contending to be the next L, so you broke up.'" I unlink my fingers with a flourish.

I look for a reaction, and it's certainly quieter than I'd expected. Volume-wise, he doesn't make a sound, but his arms are wrapped tighter around himself, his head is bent low to his chest, and I can see the corner of his jawbone clenched through his skin. So I was right.

"Ah, you don't _have _to tell me more; I'm just saying, you know, I'd like to know a bit more about the person I'm sheltering from Kira."

"You don't have to pull that card," he says distantly. "I'll tell you enough to sate your curiosity, although as the one who's providing you with intel on the Death Note, I feel entitled to some information as well."

Turned the tables on me, has he? "Dear God," I say dramatically. "Don't tell me… we're going to have to play 20 Questions to settle this?"

The ice begins to crack, though he hasn't smiled yet. "Listen. I'll only say this once."

I'm all ears.

"Near and I met at an orphanage, Wammy's House in Winchester, England. Logically, we should never have been friends. You know our personalities. You think I'm temperamental now? You should have seen me when I was ten. I can't explain it, even to myself, but I was drawn to him. I think…I tried to distract myself from the shock of my parents' death by filling myself with louder emotions. I tried to feel everything in extremes so that I would have no room left to grieve. Maybe you've felt similarly…it doesn't work. And while I was trying to pretend away the tears in my eyes, I thought about how nice it would be to be like him. To feel nothing, to have nothing to hide from the world. It's weird, I know, to be drawn to someone for a reason that inherently discourages friendship. He didn't have any friends, and he'd been there for three years before I came along.

"Anyways, however improbable it was, we became friends. I…respected him, I guess. Weird, when I think of it now, how I could ever take that ball of sheepskin seriously…but there's that saying, where if you want to know a man's true nature, look at the friends he makes…or something? Shit, I never paid attention in the philosophy classes. But somehow or other, I wanted to be like him: a genius, unburdened by emotions and social obligations. I never knew his logic behind accepting me as a friend - he must have had his reasons, he always did. It was enough that he let me into his life. The other kids didn't understand; I was breaking all their observational schemas by befriending Near. They left us alone, and we were happy that way."

At a significant glance from me, he continued, "So apparently Near insinuated that 'friends' wasn't enough to qualify us? I don't know why he bothers to remember…all right then, I'll say it: towards the end of our friendship, I was in love with him. As much as a twelve year old can love, yes, I loved him. Ironic, huh, that I looked to emulate his coldness and instead, I got charged with the most warm-hearted emotion known to the human soul. I mean, even after months of crying for my parents, I still had plenty of feelings left over. There was nowhere else for them to go."

"You don't have to make excuses."

"No…I don't, least of all to you. It's nothing to you, is it, except maybe to feed whatever sick fantasies go on inside your head…"

"Hey, hey, no need to go there," I deflect, "just go on, and for the love of Zelda, stop talking in that dead voice; it freaks me out."

"Hm." He went on with no change in tone, "Well, you were right. L broke us apart. I don't know how I didn't see it coming, but I don't know how my prior knowledge would have helped anyways. We had a lot of assessments at Wammy's, in all fields of expertise. The results were never publicized, but everyone generally knew that Near and I were at the top. Rivalry never occurred to me; in my naiveté, I was happy that we were so accomplished, that we would probably graduate with stellar records and become amazing astrophysicists or something…I didn't know that they were fatting us for the slaughter, for the bloodbath that was the race to become L."

"Mello."

"Hm?"

"Stop."

"What?"

"I've heard enough." _It's killing you to tell me this. It's not like you. Hell, _I'm _the one who's supposed to be dying all the time. It's _my _job to go around with a friggin' hangdog expression like the world is on my shoulders. _You're_ the alive one. _You're_ the one who came out of that decimated building alive; _you're_ the one who played with the Death Note and lived to tell the tale. _You're _the one death adores and drools over, the one that he can never truly claim. _You're _supposed to be _alive_._

"Hm. Fine then. What about you?"

_Please, at least feign some interest in my story. If you don't care to hear it, I don't care to tell it. _"Well, my parents died too, and it doesn't matter that I had family left, because I might as well have not, for all the influence they've left on me." I uncross my legs and stick my boots out straight into his face. "The process doesn't matter, right? All you need is the finished product in front of you. Matt, hacker extraordinaire turned errand boy, helping you to victory one security system at a time. We got this, yes?"

"Hm. Sure." He still doesn't look happy, but he's unclenched himself a bit and has raised his head to look at the table instead of his lap.

"By the way, this Wammy's House that you mentioned…any relation to the late Quillsh Wammy, greatest inventor of this century and half of the last?" There isn't a shred of doubt in my mind, but I have to make sure.

"He founded it." The words are unpunctuated, flat. In a slightly more inflectional undertone, "Though whether he originally meant for it to be a detective factory and slaughterhouse of happy childhoods, I do not know."

I file the information away for later perusal, aware that the body of the storm that is Mello's past has…passed, and we really need to get a move on.

"So…what now?"

The back straightens, the eyes rise to the level of my face, the hands fold on the table in cool, professional repose. It's as if the recent flood of memories best forgotten never happened. Now, he's Mello.

"We fish for information, of course. We need to figure out who the second L really is, ascertain whether or not he's Kira, and how much the rest of the NPA knows. First, we'll find their headquarters. I've already researched all building leases from about a month ago, when they came over here. In Los Angeles, six buildings were registered under Japanese names in that time frame. I need you to enter the NPA database and find which of those names belong with the Japanese police."

"This is assuming they use their real names."

"This is the Japanese police. Their leader, Yagami, was just about the most sickeningly upright man you'd ever find."

"All right then, that's a start." I crack my knuckles and head over to my workspace. "Keep that noggin spinning with ideas."

"Noggin?" he asks incredulously. "What are you, Irish?"

"Half, yes. Well, North Irish, so no hard feelings. Can't you see the fields of Erin in me eyes?"

It takes about ten seconds for him to double over in laughter. My accent is really that dreadful. Feeling considerably more light-hearted, I return to my screen and start typing some commands.

* * *

**Fries?**

_Mello: 3:12 p.m., November 19th, 2009_

Matt's phone rings (by rings, I mean blasts some spazzy video game theme song that I don't recognize), and strangely enough, he scrabbles to get it. I would've thought him to be the type to let it ring.

"Hello?"

Hi there.

"Speaking."

So he's not going to give me the slightest hint as to who's on the other end? Hmph. I go back to mapping the possible NPA hideouts and try to ignore Matt's occasional hm's and yes's and ah's. He doesn't need to hide anything. In all likelihood, it's her.

He hangs up eight minutes later and yawns. I'm not going to ask who it was. I'm not going to ask like a pathetic puppy left in the dark, I'm not going to ask, I'm not going to ask, I'm not—

"So who was it?"

Damn.

"Halle. She had some things to report."

"Such as?"

"Well, a few hours after I left, Near decided to give L a call. Talked some bullshit about suspecting L, though all couched within vague, speculative terms of course, and gave the task force a number to call if they wanted to work with him. Seems like two of the members actually took him up on it."

"And?"

"And so they flew to the SPK. We must have crossed in midair. They exchanged banter, Near fucked with their heads, sowed some doubt into their minds about L, and they left around 11 a.m. EST."

"Wow. That was concise. Halle spent eight minutes telling you all that?"

"Oh yeah. She also spent a lot of time begging me to come back to New York and take her honeymooning, but I told her I had other responsibilities."

_One of which being me. How perfectly lovely._

"Since when has Near been this involved?" I say to smooth over my thoughts. "Normally he would never consent to anyone outside the SPK seeing his face."

"Well, he let me see him. Maybe he's getting desperate? He doesn't actually have more leads on the case than we do."

_Than _we _do. _

I close my laptop and walk over to the kitchen. There isn't enough room to pace in Matt's workspace. "Matt, find out when their flight arrives. I want to see them for myself."

"Yes sir yes; do you want fries with that? A back massage? The fucking moon with a cherry on top?"

"Punctuality will do."

XXX

In Matt's Audi, following the taxi the guys took when they left the airport around 6:30 p.m. Apparently another of Matt's talents, in addition to self-learned nursing, hacking, air pollution, and malnutrition, is driving discreetly. Always staying two cars behind, we trundle through traffic to arrive at an apartment complex. They disappear inside, and we idle for a while, waiting to see if they come out.

At some point, Matt looks up from his phone and reports, "Amane Misa lives in this building."

Well, that should make things interesting.

After half an hour, one of them comes out looking grumpy and stalks off in the direction opposite us. I make a decision on the spur of the moment.

"I'm going to follow him, Matt. You wait here and watch."

"You're going to follow 'stache-guy on foot? What if he takes a taxi?"

"First, does he have a name? Second, if he takes a taxi, then I'll just take one too."

"First, his name is Aizawa Shuichi. Second, if you try to follow him in a taxi, your taxi driver could become a liability. Here," he gets out of the car and walks towards the rack in front of the apartment building, "I've got a better idea."

"A bike?" I stare at the bipedal he's breaking out of its lock. Surely not…

"Yep, you can keep up with any car in current traffic. Here's a map so you can pretend you're lost every now and then. Go."

With that brusque dismissal, he steps back in the car and rolls up the windows.

Following Aizawa doesn't turn out too badly. It seems the task force headquarters is within walking distance, and I spend more time looping around blocks to stay behind him than struggling not to lose him. When I'm not swerving around carefree pedestrians, dodging right-turners doing a California stop, or slipping off the pedals (when was the last time I rode a bike where I actually had to pedal?), I watch the back of his head. Somehow, I'm reminded of Matt. Aizawa walks with his head tilted forward, nose burrowing into the collar of the trench coat. Matt kind of does the same, the way he tucks his nose into that furry abomination he calls a vest. What are they both hiding from?

The motion is almost…endearing.

Hahahaaaa…so these are the kinds of thoughts I get when I need chocolate. Heaven help me.

Aizawa's finally reached a door where he stops and fumbles with the keypad. He glances around sneakily (I park myself in an alcove and whip out the map) and then enters. I look up at the building. 4399 Harlan Avenue. Did that come up during our search? It sounds vaguely familiar.

Somewhere, an electric guitar and synthesizer riff begins thudding heavily, alternating octaves in a way that makes my head ache more when I realize that the sound is coming from my pocket. I reach in and withdraw, with some bemusement, a cell phone. The screen flashes 'Matt'.

"Since when did I have a cell phone?" I answer snappily.

"Since I slipped it in your pocket when I gave you the bike. Seriously, I could probably rob you naked and you wouldn't notice."

_I seriously doubt that. _"Ok. Why did you call?"

"Amane seems to be going shopping with Mogi. He doesn't look so happy. Honestly, the man doesn't know how to appreciate what he's got: time off from work, a nice girl to hang with, a fine phys - "

"Right, so do you have the necessary setup for Amane's apartment?"

"Yep, right here with me. I'll begin then, shall I?"

"Please do."

I hang up, feeling relieved that something, at least, has gone right today.

* * *

**Day in, Day Out**

_Mello: November 20th, 2009 to December 5th, 2009_

It's unsettling, how _easy _it is to get used to this life. This is a normal day in the life (times are approximate).

12 a.m. I go to bed.

4:30 a.m. Matt goes to bed (I only know because I asked him).

7:30 a.m. I wake up, the usual: bathroom, breakfast.

Once, I suppose the sound or smell of my breakfast woke him up, and he walks into the bathroom right as I'm spitting out my toothpaste.

"Why is your toothpaste so bloody?"

I look, and indeed, it's tinged with pink rather than the toothpaste's mint green. I really can't think of anything to say besides "I brush vigorously" and "I haven't been getting much vitamin C lately" - I mean, how dumb does that sound? So I just say, "It reflects the color of the whites of your eyes."

He takes that as a dismissal to get back to sleep, and he's pretty much in the right.

8 a.m. On weekdays, I go out to inconspicuously survey the front of the NPA building. I assume most of the members have already arrived, although there's often one foolish-faced straggler who tumbles in at ten past. They don't work on weekends, so instead I follow Amane Misa around to endless, equally mind-numbing boutiques, movie shoots, theaters, restaurants, even the hospital once when she was convinced she'd sprained her ankle toting shopping bags in four-inch heels. I felt sorry for her bodyguard.

1 p.m. Matt thrives on recycled carbon dioxide and tar fumes, because when I occasionally go back to his place for lunch (I bring groceries to make sure he hasn't starved), he's always smack in the middle of his noxious cloud, mashing buttons while "watching" the screens monitoring Amane.

"I don't do two-player games," he says shortly as he notices my gaze on the screen.

"I wasn't going to ask," I say. Really, I wasn't, but he didn't have to be so forestalling. "Can I guess why?"

He doesn't say anything, so I guess, "You can't bear to have anyone sit close to you because all around you is stuff you need. Smokes, surveillance feeds, poisonous carbonated drinks, more gaming devices, etc.; the radius of your wall is so wide that no one can sit close enough to the TV to have a fair view of the screen and a chance at the game."

"Wrong."

"Huh?"

"I'm not that partial about personal space. For years, there just hasn't been anyone physically present when I play. It's just force of habit."

Oh. Now I feel dumb.

1:30 p.m. Back to NPA HQ. This is usually when I start feeling the futility of my efforts. I'm waiting for _them _to move, when hardly anyone even leaves the building. Sometimes I call Matt, just to see if anything's happened.

It never has.

He actually calls me once. I'm on the verge of spacing out in the foyer of the hotel across from the NPA building when I feel my phone vibrate. I flip it open in a flurry, thinking something suspicious has happened, but I'm quickly persuaded otherwise.

"What does cheap perfume smell like?"

"What?" What's Matt on to?

"I beat all the levels of all my newest games, and I don't feel like the old ones, so I'm watching TV dramas. The girl just said she could tell her guy was cheating on her because he came home smelling like some whore's cheap perfume. So what does it actually smell like, O thou who hast experience in such sordid matters?"

I think of a mountain of testosterone sitting on a couch with two flimsy sticks of girls drowning in his arms. I shudder. "It's a cliché, Matt. There's no difference between cheap and expensive perfume. And I don't know what kind the mafia whores used; I only ever smelled the aroma of chocolate while I was there."

5 p.m. About this time I finish all the chocolate I've brought, so time slows down vastly. I think about Matt, surrounded by his gadgets for entertainment; it strikes me that Near is the same. I think about how nothing seems to change for either of them, the one eternally typing, gaming, watching, the other forever hair-twisting, puzzle-solving, soul-numbing, unalive.

I almost want to scream.

6-7 p.m. The members of the NPA leave in intervals of twenty minutes or so, just three of them, which leads me to believe that at least one remains inside at all times. The task force couldn't be that small, even with Mogi held up with Misa.

7 p.m. Back…home. I don't know what else to call it. For dinner, I either get food delivery or make something for dinner; whatever I didn't do at lunch.

I hate eating out. People, people, people, eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes on my hood and my shades and my hunched form as I'm trying to eat a goddamn sandwich with a toothpick in it - they're probably not paying me any mind at all. But I can't shake the feeling that someone's eyes are piercing me, that someone's got it out for me.

Which usually leaves me in the kitchen trying to cobble together something Matt will eat. It's not like I'm a bad cook. My pasta's ok, beef and celery stir-fry's ok, lasagna's ok, most everything I make is ok, I think; at least, it's edible and doesn't induce food poisoning. But I guess unless it's absolutely fabulous, Matt doesn't eat it.

And of course, the exception to the rule…cup noodles.

*makes me want to tear my hair out*

**oh wait, I barely have enough left**

8 p.m. I rest up a bit and take over watching Misa. Matt goes out, and one day I think to ask him where he goes.

"Let me show you," he says.

I hesitate.

"Misa will behave her darling self for one night," he reassures. "Hurry up."

Five minutes later, we're weaving through mild, post-rush hour traffic, heading nowhere in Matt's sleek, silver sedan.

"Why aren't you in jail yet?" I call over the screech of tires as Matt cuts off yet another inferior driver.

He smiles as he takes a left turn going fifty; I swear the right side wheels have left the ground. "I don't stay around long enough to get caught."

My face's figurative coloration comprises green for carsickness, purple for fury at allowing myself to be dragged out on a joyride, white for fear of dying amid a heap of broken glass, scrap metal, and scarlet finish, and incandescent for the bizarre exhilaration of driving crazily.

"Don't look like that," he says, probably reading more into the purple. "If I didn't indulge this habit, I would never have found you."

I should be more worried about him taking his eyes off the road. He did it once and saved my life. I figure his luck might hold out another time. I don't take my chances, though. This is the first and last time we drive together.

11:45 p.m. I check in with Matt one final time; anything come up that I need to know ? No. Anything unusual we need to do tomorrow? No. Anything you need for the next few hours? No. Can I empty this ashtray before you burn the building down? Ok.

* * *

**Body Works**

_Mello: 11:10 a.m., December 5th, 2009_

I'm just doing what I do every Saturday morning, snooping around the internet for intel on Kira, and then he trudges in fresh from slumber, eyes half lidded and quite shamelessly missing his shirt.

I guess he doesn't have anything to be ashamed of: tattoos snake their way up his arms and over his chest in no definite patterns; they could be flames, vines, abstract swirls. It would have been just like him to tell the tattooist: "Do what you will with my body," or "Give me whatever you did on the last person."

"In fifty years, you'll regret those," I say. "You'll be a bag of skin and bones with some ugly splotches down your front, and you'll never wear short sleeves again."

He directs his shuffling gait over to the TV, on top of which he seems to have located something suitable to wear.

"Who said I'm planning on living that long?" he says nonchalantly as he donned a T-shirt that says 'When there's no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth' in angsty, dripping caps lock.

(What _is _it with people obsessing about zombie apocalypses? There are plenty of more pressing, realistic problems in the world, like poverty, global warming, and oh I don't know…Kira?)

"Your own death isn't something you plan, necessarily," he continues uninvited. "You just kind of let it happen."

He sounds… almost gleeful. Like death is a party he's going to crash, bare-chested and unwrinkled, smiling until the end. And for the last song, they'll put on some slow 90s ballad, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" or something.

Except will I?

* * *

**Note #5: the power and the glory**

_The day after Mello saw my tattoo… _

Or was it an eternity later? Time was a funny thing back then. Sometimes like silly putty, sometimes unyielding rock. Who knows.

Anyways, he asked why I got it. I mean, Mello, my tattoo. And he said that I said, because I sure as purgatory don't remember it, "So I could know how much it hurt and set it to the 100th power and imagine that must be how being eaten alive feels."

Like I said, I don't remember saying that. I didn't put much stock in words. They can be twisted, whether with crafty syntax or sound editing devices, it makes no difference. But I can't forget seeing Mello's face afterwards, and seeing what he saw. What I'd almost stopped seeing.

He saw the twelve cigarette butts on the floor around me, one still glowing faintly. It was three in the afternoon; I'd woken up at twelve noon. He saw the piles of energy drinks and junk food wrappers forming geologic strata on the carpet. He saw my bloodshot eyes and the way I got up, in the rare event that I did, straightening excruciatingly, vertebra by vertebra. He saw my lank, unwashed hair hanging down in resigned strands, contrasting my fingers and feet, never still, always nervous, uncontrolled, outside of me. He saw everything about me that was ugly and pathetic and dead and undead.

I saw… not everything about him, but one thing in blinding detail: fear held court in his angel's eyes. And he was so beautiful.

That was when I first knew: he was afraid for me. That was when I first resolved to keep on living and dying for him, just to keep seeing him in his eternal fear and glory.


	4. Prelude

**Chapter Four: Prelude**

**Between**

_Matt: 4:12 p.m., December 6th, 2009_

"Matt, what are you doing? Mogi and Misa are at LAX!"

I glance at the screens, where a massive U-haul has been blocking the main entrance for hours. How Misa managed to do her packing without my noticing, though, escapes me.

"So they are," I say, trying to act bored despite Mello's panic. "Oops."

I heard exaggerated fuming over the line, and then he says, "Matt, we're going to Japan."

A honeymoon! is my first thought. Then, damn, he'll want chocolate, and the airport's See's Candies is shit expensive.

XXX

"We will now begin boarding first class passengers to Tokyo International, flight 667 at 11 p.m."

He stands and takes several strides towards the gateway, stopping to look back expectantly when he doesn't hear my footsteps behind him.

"Aren't you coming along?"

I dangle my boarding pass in the air; he stares at it without reading it. "Yeah, that's your ticket, so come on."

"Can you read?"

He can.

"What? Why didn't you…why are you in 27F? I thought you booked first class for both of us?"

His voice echoes with bemusement, irritation, impatience, other shades that I don't bother to dissect; I phase it all out in favor of letting that slight high wash over me, that feeling of anti-certainty whenever I board a plane. They say that the likelihood of getting in a car accident is higher than that of getting in a plane crash for the average person, but the likelihood of dying in a plane crash is much higher than that of a car accident. I take my chances.

For the same reason, I chose 27F, the most crowded, miserable section, the steerage of modern planes. Statistically, I might be only slightly more likely to die sitting there than anywhere else since it's too crowded to get to an exit quickly. I could be overthinking things. Mostly, I need to hand off chocolate duty to the flight attendants and rest for ten hours. Blonde bombshell can really get on all seven trillion of my nerves sometimes.

And I need to think about what to do with the info on Wammy's House…hm. Some of these things are just too interesting to pass up. My trigger finger's itching.

XXX

Six hours later, nature calls, and I squirm out over the lap of an enormously fat grandmother who keeps calling me 'dear child.' I stomp my feet twice to shake them awake and proceed to the nearest lavatory, which happens to be occupied.

With a six-man line in front of it.

I turn around to find another one, which turns into a plane-wide recon mission, Operation Save Matt's Dick From Bursting. I ask, I seek, I knock, yet no door is opened to me.

All right. New tactic. I came, I saw, I conquered. The first class cabin lavatory shall be mine.

I push through the curtain, bump past a surprised steward carrying a tray (what's that, caviar? Lox? I've only ever seen those in pictures. So this is what it means to be the 1%), and my finish line is in sight. I raise my eyes, and manna from heaven falls in the form of the overhead sign switching from occupied to vacant. Victory! I scream in my mind as I barrel chest first into the person exiting the lavatory, who happens to be Mello.

"Fancy meeting you here."

I don't even know which one of us said it; my mind's just too occupied with alternating thoughts of 'Eliminate! Eliminate!' and 'Fuck, Mello.'"

Notice the importance of the comma there.

Then he says, "You'd better get in quick; the steward's after your head."

I stare, more because I don't understand why we can't stay away from each other than because of how he said what he said, but he replies to my look with, "No, I'm not coming with; if you want to have plane sex, there's no point trying to be covert." Then he steps smartly past me and the raging steward to return to his seat.

He gives sound advice; I follow it and dash for the lavatory, still pondering how much of the plane sex part he meant.

I mean, his face would've given Lady Gaga a run for her money.

Ugh.

XXX

Off the plane, onto the street, into a spanking set of wheels (I plan ahead; I requested this baby even before I booked our plane tickets), off to the hotel for a night until I can find somewhere for us.

Outside the window, fake snow piles in the street, fake trees forest every shop and foyer, fake cheer and fake spirit trill through the air, and you know, this might just be my neglected, cynical inner child talking, but I've never had much patience for Christmas.

Yeah, it's because I never get any presents. I know, you thought I was going to segue into some long, philosophical discussion of St. Nick's Day. No, it's simple, Christmas just doesn't mean anything to me.

Mello doesn't seem to care much for the decorations either, but he could have just outgrown them. Maybe his Christmases were pleasant enough until a certain one-lettered moniker came along and made him study through the holidays instead of enjoying them. An idle thought crosses my mind and solidifies: maybe I should get him a present.

For once, I have someone to exchange presents with. I think of the first thing I ever threw at him and know what I'll get him. Of course, 'exchange' indicates that both parties give and receive gifts. I wonder if the notion will even strike him.

* * *

**Cornerstore Confrontation**

_Matt: 2:02 p.m., December 9th, 2009_

"I need chocolate."

Not that again.

"You need smokes."

Well, that _is _true.

"You always buy the wrong brand."

Well excuse me if I can't differentiate between the rows upon rows of unique chocolate bars.

"And you won't let me drive the car."

You ever heard of walking? Or public transportation? Japan's an expert at it.

"Come with me just this once, can't you?"

Yeah, I can do that.

XXX

He drums his fingers against the countertop as the poor girl (looks like a trainee) fumbles with the store's entire stock of chocolate (he's gotten less exclusive and can tolerate milk chocolate now) and maybe a quarter of the cigarettes (I do have to save some money to pay for my life insurance). Although it's just a race to see which of us dies first from our respective vices.

If I ate as much chocolate as he does, I could speed up the process. I almost salivate.

(I don't even like chocolate.)

"Matt? Your smile is creeping me out."

"Yeah, I was just wondering how much time you lose with each bar you eat. And each stick I smoke." At a blank look from him, I explain, "How much time goes down in the numbers above your head."

A moment passes, then blank changes to mildly irritated to outright infuriated as he launches into a tirade. "And you were thinking that with a manic grin on your face? Am I missing something here? Are you secretly a Kira sleeper agent with a deathwish?"

The cashier's looking at us curiously, as are the customers behind us. Mello's raised voice and mention of Kira, although the English is Greek to them, doesn't make great publicity.

"Relax, Mello. It's a fucking joke." I tear open a pack that's already been scanned and start to take one out, but Mello's hand closes around my wrist.

"Why, Matt? Why do you always do these things? Why do you act like you don't care about life?"

"I-"

"You want to catch Kira, so you must want to live. You must value life. You must see it as a gift, a resource. You can't just play around with it and throw it away."

I think that's my radius and ulna uncrossing, owwww—

"What's _wrong_ with you, Matt?"

What am I supposed to say? This is how I am?

"Look, if you're just going to die on me, I'm better off working without you. I can't stand it; it's like you're planning your own funeral."

He grabs two bags of chocolate, leaves the rest, and stalks out under everyone's shocked stares.

The cashier says something that I take to mean, do you still want the chocolate? and I nod.

He's got to at least come back for his birthday.

* * *

**(Almost) One Hundred Hours of Solitude**

_Matt: December 10th, 2009_

It's quiet.

Noise accompanies him; Mello eats chocolate like he's singing a fucking aria. Basically, very dramatically and loudly. Every breath he takes is a sigh, a suspiration. Without him around… I think about the last thing he said, about me planning for my own funeral. I could almost already be there; it's quiet as a mausoleum around here. I find myself trying to inhale deeper, which gets me a little more smoke, type faster, be louder in any way possible, just to fill the silence, which I've never noticed before Mello.

It's like I'm already dead, isn't it?

No, I'm not quite. Not yet. I've still got things to do.

I type "unusual designs for guns" in Google and hit return.

XXX

"Hello?"

"It's Halle."

"How do you do, Halle."

"We've moved to Japan, following the task force."

"Well, at least Mello beat Near in that aspect."

"Is he there?"

"No, he's out, but I'm sure he'll be back shortly. I can take a message for him."

"No…no, there's nothing in particular that I wanted to say. I'll keep you updated on Near's actions. That's all."

I hang up and frown at the phone.

Near is basically L's successor; he operates in all the same ways. Never shows his face, never sees the light of day, never stops doing what he does: solving cases. It's a way of life, and I'm not sure if it could ever be right for Mello. I wonder if he's ever really thought about it.

There would be no flamboyant action-movie shootouts, no daring on-scene snooping, no L Day Parades; in fact, there wouldn't be much going out at all. There would be a lot of phone calls to outside agents and talking to a computer and living amid cold machinery. There would be no publicity, no glory other than that buzz he'd get when the headlines reported another case solved by L (but no one knows HE'S L), and no end to the cases lined up for him. There is no end to injustice.

Wouldn't he eventually wear out, throwing himself at every wrongdoer in the world and getting cut to bloody pieces in the end? How far could intrinsic motivation get him before he'd realize, this job really doesn't pay off? How long would he last? What made him think he ever wanted to be L?

What were you thinking, Mello? L is fundamentally alone. You can't be alone. I don't know how you've managed twenty-four hours without me as it is.

Where are you? What do you think you're doing?

* * *

**Freud's Sweet Tooth**

_Matt: 12:12 p.m., December 13th, 2009_

I know the moment has come when a shadow passes over the sun; it's like God flipped the switch, even though it's most likely just a bird or a plane or a cloud or a UFO.

Sure, the turn of keys in the lock might have tipped me off, too.

He looks a bit worn; his jacket hangs off his shoulders, his face is ash grey, and his usual stentorian door slam falls short as the door clicks quietly shut behind him. I suddenly feel the need to be the loud one.

"Happy birthday, Mello," I chirp.

"Hm."

He drops into a chair that normally creaks something awful but remains silent under his minuscule weight.

"So whaddaya want for your birthday? Anything's negotiable, within reason. Hot meal? Warm bath? Personal space heater for your bed? I'm not a big fan of this couch, you know."

"Psh, I'd take you up on the last if you didn't stink so much. Don't bother; I don't want anything. How's work going?"

"Watched HQ, nothing happens, no leads, although that Takada lady is shooting her mouth way off with her Kiravangelism. But don't change the subject. Don't you want anything at all? It's quite an achievement, staying alive for two decades."

"I just want to finish the goddamn case, Matt. Let me see what you've got on Takada." He gets halfway out of his chair and slumps back.

"Fine, but not before you get something in your stomach," I say. Now where did I put it…in the kitchenette? Right, duh. Faintly, I hear him say something about putting something in _my _stomach, most likely a vicious punch.

Ooh, here it is. He'll love it; he can't not.

"You know, Mello, you left your gun here, so I took the liberty of making you a copy…"

I present it to him, handle first, straight from the freezer.

"…that you can eat."

It's made of pure, 80% dark Dagoba chocolate. Melted down. Mello must have realized this, because he says with a dry smile, "And there I was thinking you didn't know how to use the stove."

"I got the idea from this website. They also had a mold for a grenade, but it was too complicated."

"So this is what you spend your time doing," he murmurs, stroking the barrel, the twin of his own in sleek cocoa. "And you expect me to start sucking on this in front of you?"

The unspoken statement is clear: "What kind of a Freudian fetish do you have?"

"Well, I suppose you can put it back in the freezer," I say, trying to sound miffed.

"It's fine," he says, nibbling on the trigger.

I tell myself the slight twinge in my gut is just because I'm glad he's back, not because he's eating the chocolate gun in a suggestive manner at all.

"There were a lot of interesting ideas on the website besides this one," I say. "Beer-squirting guns, gun-shaped soap bars, a gun with a cell phone built in the handle, a condom case shaped like a gun—"

Ooh. Awk.

"Really?" he says as elegantly as he can through a mouthful of chocolate—most of the handle is gone. "Were you considering making me one? I don't exactly have much need for rubbers."

Why is it that with us, everything can be read multiple ways? Is he suggesting that he's celibate, asexual, not concerned about safe sex, not interested in _me, _even in a teasing fashion, or what?

Is this normal for male…uh, friends, housemates, co-conspirators, whatever we are?

"Ok," I say as I try to restore some sanity to the conversation. "I'm just going to ignore that and give you the files on Takada. And pretend I never said anything."

"Fair enough," he says, practically swallowing the rest of the barrel whole. "I just wanted to give you a heads-up in case you're stuck for future present ideas."

"Keep the attitude up and there won't be any future presents."

It's an idle threat.

* * *

**Glad to Be Alive**

_Mello: 4:17 p.m., December 13th, 2009_

_Has he ever been glad to be alive? _I think, as I watch him lob a cigarette stub at the ashtray that is never located conveniently right next to him. The flickering embers smudge the carpet, and he flirts with the idea of setting the carpet on fire.

_No, Mello, NO. Matt and flirt do not ever go in the same thought, you hear me?_

…

Yeah, I get you loud and clear. But really, _has _he? Has he ever just burst out of school on a Friday afternoon, inhaling fresh, unacademic air and looking forward to a free weekend? Has he ever curled up under a shady tree with a book (a real book, not a tech manual; not that he even needs to read those), read it cover to cover in a day, stretched his back afterwards, and shivered at the amazement those fine-print words left him with? Has he ever looked into someone's eyes and smiled because they made him happy?

I snort and shake my head, earning myself a brief, bemused glance from behind his goggles before he turns back to whatever file he's reading. Those instances of joy hail from my past, specifically from Wammy's, before L. They're not _his _past. For all I know, he might have spent all eternity in his apartment typing away, picking up random strays who came and went whenever he had a moment. He might be a demon condemned and confined to this mundane world for insubordination. The Kira case has given me solid evidence of more unlikely things. Everything about him just seems so ageless, so lifeless—he could be reading anime fanfiction, a.k.a. PORNPORNPORN and I wouldn't be able to tell.

How has he lived this long without being happy even once in a while? I unwrap a bar of chocolate less than quietly, and he doesn't turn his head; that's one sound he's acclimatized to. Unless maybe… it's because I'm here that he's not happy?

_Don't flatter yourself, Mihael. Your middle name may be Misery, but you don't cause enough of it to completely unhinge him emotionally. You haven't made him what he is._

Great, so how do I make him into something he would be better off being? Namely, _happy? _And also, why do I care?

I don't answer the questions in my head, instead turning back to my computer and cursing myself for wasting time thinking about Matt when I should have been reading up on Kira's supporters.

Somewhere at the back of my mind, though, I think I know.

He has to change himself.

And…

Why _do _I care? I guess, for the same reason I care(d) for Near, and L, and Wammy, and the girl in the corner store where I buy shitty Japanese chocolate, and the idiot hobo who sits at the bus stop, and the people in the lesser cars at intersections who drool as we blizz by in Matt's new, fire-truck-red muscle car.

But, more than that. All of that and more. It's just another thing I can't answer, and I've come to accept that.

It's the 'how much' part of the question that scares me. Goddamn, my head hurts.

* * *

**The Futility and the Earnestness**

_Matt: 8:45 p.m., December 13th, 2009_

"Mello, Halle's on the phone," I call. He should be able to hear me through the closed door to the suite's bedroom, where he's retired early, claiming migraines.

No answer. I try again. "She's calling to wish you a happy birthday and hinting that Near's noggin is spinning extra hard."

Still nothing. Normally I'd leave it at that and hang up without further bother. Something seems off, though. _It might not be just my mother hen instincts overreacting,_ I think as I walk towards the door.

I put my ear to the door (don't wanna walk in on him getting off or anything) and listen hard. His tone, volume, and words make it clear what he's doing.

I never thought he was religious; I assumed the rosary was just a fashion statement. But I can hear "In the name of the Father" and "Holy Spirit" and "Virgin Mary" and such jargon dotting his sentences. He's…praying.

"Halle, I think he's having a Mello moment. Call again tomorrow and he'll be good to talk. Bye." I hang up before she can get a word in.

I don't personally believe, but I can see why Mello does. He needs people to fulfill himself. He needs them to be content, to feel at peace. He fancies himself independent, but he clung to Near to make himself feel in control of his emotions; he suckered onto L, goddamn shadow of a man who represented what Mello thought he wanted to become; he held on to God and his faith in an attempt to what? Fill some emptiness in his soul with the thin air that is a god with no ears?

He starts a familiar one, one that always accompanied dinner with my great aunt back when I was a kid, and I roll my eyes at the King James holier-than-thou diction:

"Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name."

Yes, yes, all hail Lord Kira.

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is done in heaven."

Looks like that's already happening.

"Give us this day our daily bread…"

Yesterday I saw this whole foods commercial on TV, where this Japanese girl in a miniskirt and pink blazer, who by the way looked completely out of place in a supermarket, was holding a wholesome loaf of bread and bunch of grapes, proclaiming, "We support Kira-sama!"

Must be good for business.

"…and forgive us our debts, as we have also forgiven our debtors."

Well, I can forgive Mello for spending so much on chocolate, but that's the limit of my magnanimity.

"Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

Kira, you were the one who gave in to temptation by using the Death Note.

"For thine is the kingdom…"

That was in "Hollow Men," wasn't it?

"…and the power…"

My dear Eliot, you are over-quoted and overrated.

"…and the glory…"

Going out with a bang does not make you superior to those who go out with a whimper.

"…"

Seriously.

"…"

Wait. What about the rest? Is this some avant-garde, new religion kind of unfinished prayer style?

I ease the door open gently and say, "Forever. Amen," to the dark room. Then I flick on the lights.

"Matt?" he says tiredly from where he sits on the bed in a nest of pillows.

"Uh, hey," I say with an awkward sense of déjà vu. Why do we always end up like this, in darkness, in ignorance, in vulnerability? "Are you ok?"

"Fine…" he mutters, fingering the rosary loosely."Did you need something?"

"Only to tell you that Halle called to wish you well."

"Ok. Anything else."

"Mello," I begin, unsure what to say. "When you said the Lord's Prayer, you were thinking of Kira."

At a dark look from him, I hastily revise myself, "I mean, not blasphemously, but you were thinking of how fucked up it is that Kira holds more sway over the world right now than God does. And how his goddamn kingdom and power and fucking glory might just last forever, like it says."

I walk over and sit at the foot of the bed, facing the wall to his left. He can tolerate physical contact, I've learned over these past days, but emotional proximity is something different.

"Mello, it can't last. It won't. Kira's human; he makes mistakes. We're bound to stumble on something sooner or later that will bring him down. And even if we don't, Kira will die eventually. He can't maintain his dystopia after he's dead.

"I know what you're thinking: oh, but he can, because there was the second Kira, who carried out his will. And there was a third. Why can't there be infinitely more? It'll never end. So what can we do?" I ask of his still form, his eyes staring ahead, dully reflecting the light from the doorway.

"Did the nuns or whoever taught you your rosary teach you the serenity prayer? The one that goes like, 'God give me the serenity to accept what I cannot change, courage to change what I can, and wisdom to tell the difference.' There's more to it, but that's the main idea."

"I didn't think you were a Catholic too, what with your habits and your fixation with death," he says in a hollow, slightly nasal voice.

"I'm not," I smirk. "I just read that aphorism in _Slaughterhouse Five._"

"You read books?" The incredulity in his voice is almost adorable.

"When I was very little, yes. I still know how. I'll read to you someday. But the point is that," I return to the topic before we can get too reminiscent, "in our lifetimes, we may not be able to stop Kira and change the world. But the great thing is that God probably won't grant this prayer anyway, because he never does, so we won't have the wisdom to tell the difference. We'll just keep dashing ourselves against Kira's infallibility and bleed out on the pavement, and it'll be fine."

"Yes, just dandy, I'm sure." Hm, at least his sarcastic streak has returned. We can work from there.

"Really, Mello, usually I'm the one who's preaching doom and gloom and hopelessness. Don't let me rub off on you." I slide off the bed and look down at him.

"Mm, will do."

We share a comfortable silence.

"I'm going to sleep now," he announces, shifting and crawling under the blankets. He closes his eyes.

"Ok," I acknowledge, but I don't move.

"Matt?"

"Mello."

"Thanks."

Against my better judgment, I reach over and tuck a strand of hair away from his face. If he notices, he says nothing.

I walk out slightly confused.

* * *

**A/N:** So, there you are. While I was putting this together, I alternated between thinking "ooh, this is the shit :D" and "what is this shit?! O_O", so it all kind of evens out. Idk. Just not real happy with the pacing of this. Oh well!

I don't own Death Note, nor the things quoted: Eliot's "Hollow Men," Vonnegut's _Slaughterhouse Five, _The Lord's Prayer (Matthew 6:9-13), or any of the gun designs featured. They are real; you can find them if you google 'unusual designs for gun' and it's the first one. Lol, the things I do in my free time. So, review?


	5. Leap of Faith

**Chapter Five: Leap of Faith**

**A/N: **Chunks of dialogue in _italics_ are Halle talking, bits of **bold **are random quotes from the Bible; oh, you can figure it out. _Death Note_ is not under my ownership, in case you were wondering.

* * *

**Mikey Terry**

_Matt: 10:32 p.m., December 14th, 2009_

"Congratulations, Halle. Takada-sama's most media-friendly bodyguard."

"That's not exactly a virtue in this profession. I need to keep a low profile."

"Oh, I'm sure," I reply. I remember that Mello's sitting across the room, so I put Halle on speaker phone. "So how was your first day at work?"

Mello and I roll our eyes (well, I do; Mello's above such expressions) at Misa-Misa's confrontation with Takada and Halle's flawless apprehension of the feisty model.

"My shift begins in an hour," she concludes. "I need to work towards becoming Takada's principle bodyguard so I can monitor her activities and liaisons with Kira at all times."

"Yeah, ok. Good job, golden girl." I think Mello's falling asleep. Sleeping under bus stops and shop awnings for four nights must've really done him a number. "Anything else from your side?"

A pause. "It may be too early to be sure, but…Near is investigating someone as X-Kira."

"X-Kira?"

"Someone in charge of judgments, under the command of Kira himself."

"Mmhm. I need a name, Halle."

"Matt's better than Kira, Halle. He only needs a name to screw someone over, not a face," Mello says.

I stare at him. No, he's not sleep talking. Huh. He usually doesn't talk to Halle on the phone, nor compliment me, not matter how indirectly.

If Halle thinks Mello's comment strange, she hides it well. "His name is Mikami Teru."

Mikami Teru. The name resonates with me badly.

He's going to become the bane of our existence. Mikey Terry, just you wait. We'll get you back.

"All right, Halle. If that's all, I'm signing off. Keep us updated."

Mello stirs as I press the end call button, then falls back against the cushions. I don't know how he can get comfortable on this threadbare couch, but he does.

"You want a bedtime story, kiddo?" Mello's bedtime stories were probably the original Grimm Brothers' tales, with all the gory, evil parts unedited.

"I'm older than you," he retorts, though he hardly looks it as he slides another few inches down the back of the sofa. "But sure, read me something. Anything. Even the nutrition label on the last drink you had. I just want to…" he trails off, eyes unfocused and half-lidded.

Hear my voice? my mind supplies. Yeah, this brown, crumbling voice, laced with smoke and acid, huh. Yeah, right.

"Ok, I'll read from the Bible," I decide. Again, I'm not particularly religious or pedagogic, but I just feel it might do him some good to be reminded of the Word, a breath of familiarity in a world where God is now all too alien.

Just as long as I don't read anything too depressing, like Ecclesiastes or Lamentations. Or awkward, like Song of Songs, ha.

On second thought, I might try it just to see his reaction. I open to a random page and begin.

* * *

**Bedtime Story**

_Mello: 1:01 a.m., December 22nd, 2009_

_"I don't mean to sound like a gossip columnist, but that dinner with Amane and Takada was an absolute catfight. I don't know how much Takada knows about the suspicions raised against Amane a few years ago, but she was certainly very defensive. I would say she maintained a superiority complex with regards to her proximity to Light Yagami."_

**"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord," **Matt drones. (Romans 8:38-39)

Ok, Halle, so where's the catch? What are you trying to tell us that we don't know, besides the fact that both girls are madly in love with Yagami?

Hold on. Takada, Amane, secret meetings. Light Yagami.

Kira.

"Mm, took you long enough," Matt says when I blurt it out excitedly. Halle's silence is implicit.

Finally. After months, we have a name.

_"Also, Gevanni's been tailing Mikami around the clock, to and from work, home, and the gym, among other places. He reported something outside of the usual today. Mikami used the note in plain sight on the train home from work."_

Yeah, he definitely could've made that work. Just pretend he's taking lawyerly notes and bam, someone's dead.

_"A man was speaking crudely to a girl a few seats away; the carriage was empty besides the four of them. Mikami looked on for a moment, took out his phone and typed something, and then took out the notebook."_

1. Wait. He just killed off a man who was paying a girl some unwanted attention, but not outright molesting her? Kira normally only eliminates criminals who deserve a decade or more behind bars. What's with this sudden pettiness?

2. Even if this new attention to detail could be allowed, couldn't Mikami just have gotten up and physically restrained the man? What're all those hours in the gym for?

**For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.** (Isaiah 55:8)

Yes, X-Kira could never descend to such mean ways, couldn't ever dirty his hands.

3. Why would he risk busting the note out in public?

4. Why would he fucking text someone first? 'Dear Kira-sama, just wanted to let you know I'm killing a guy for sexual harassment on the train. Faithfully yours, M.T.' It doesn't line up.

_"We're not sure if Mikami is being followed by a shinigami, but that could alter our plans significantly."_

**Once when we were going to the place of prayer, we were met by a female slave who had a spirit by which she predicted the future. She earned a great deal of money for her owners by fortune-telling. She followed Paul and the rest of us, shouting, "These men are servants of the Most High God, who are telling you the way to be saved." ****She kept this up for many days. Finally Paul became so annoyed that he turned around and said to the spirit, "In the name of Jesus Christ I command you to come out of her!" At that moment the spirit left her.** (Acts 16:16-18)

It's pure coincidence that Matt read that passage to me two days ago, and we wondered if shinigami would be so annoying. Sidoh was actually pretty useful and not at all irritating. It would serve Mikami right, though, if his shinigami were a pain in the ass.

After Halle hangs up, Matt agrees that Mikami's activity is suspicious, but so long as no conclusions can be drawn, and Christmas carols are playing constantly, he seems content to let the case stagnate (never mind we've figured out who Kira is) in favor of less dangerous pastimes. I suppose gun design is more dangerous than it could be, but that's what we live for, isn't it?

"It's your Christmas present," he says when I ask, flicking through pages upon pages of diagrams and calculations.

"This," I hold up a sheet whose every square inch is scrawled thick with illegible numbers, "is going to be ready by Christmas Day?"

"Of course," he says as he gives me a 'you-clearly-don't-know-who-you're-talking-to' look. "I'm used to working towards deadlines."

"Ok, then how's this?" I say, crossing my arms and looking imperatively down at him. "I need you to find a way to infiltrate Mikami's workplace so I can go in and observe him for a day, by Christmas."

"Mm, no can do."

"Why not?"

"Be_cause_," he stresses, "Kira knows your name. If Mikami sees you, he will know to kill you. Is this how you normally propose plans? 'I'm just going to walk into the tiger's mouth, so draw me a map, thanks very much'? I didn't think you got by in the Mafia just based on your looks."

I give him a nasty one. He has the decency to look almost ashamed.

"Ok, that was low, very, very low. I'm sorry."

"You should be. Did you really think I was completely unprepared? Behold my game plan, presented here as scribbled marginalia in yesterday's paper, which I purloined from the neighbor's doormat, detailing the modus operandi of the projected foray into enemy territory in an effort to resolve the query: is there a shinigami accompanying Mikami?"

"Um…" He takes the newspaper and eyes it dubiously.

"That was intended to be a parody of the law profession's propensity for grandiloquence."

"…I can't be sure if you're being serious behind all this mockery and big talk."

"Please, Matt. And thank you in advance, and sorry for the trouble doubly in advance."

"Holy hell, Mello's breaking out the magic words. He's got to be serious." His expression says he doesn't believe me, but…

"I am."

"Look...I know you aren't afraid to die and all that noble shit. But you seriously could. If that's what you want me to do for you, on your own pretty neck be it."

I'm going to ignore that last bit.

"Just be informed that everything else I have to do for you will be on the backburner until I sort out how to get in. Masquerade as a foreign executive…fake emails…hm." His eyes blur back and forth over several pages before he surveys me and frowns. "You actually thought this through?"

"You wound my heart with your tone of surprise."

"Poor baby. Do you want me to kiss it better?"

It's an innocent, teasing question, and a month ago, I might have brushed it off with a snappy comeback or at least a snort and a roll of the eyes. But now, I hesitate just a moment too long, and he hears it.

"I…think I'll pass." As if he was asking seriously.

"Hm, have it your way."

And then we sit, in thick, custardy silence for nearly ten minutes.

Not pure silence; it's like silence pudding dotted with plums and cherries of the vast array of awkward silence sounds and motions. That is officially the worst simile I've ever made.

I clear my throat; he clears his throat; I cross my feet; he uncrosses his; I sniff; he sighs.

I yawn.

He shifts in his seat, reaches over, and suddenly I tip over onto my side and land neatly with my head in his lap.

"Matt, what—"

"Shh," he cuts me off. "I need to work. Go to sleep. You won't feel awkward if you're asleep."

"I can't sleep if I feel awkward." _What. Is. Going. On._

"I'll tell you a story if it makes you sleep."

This is insane. But…it also feels perfectly normal.

"Once upon a time, there were these two guys. One guy pulled the other guy out of a burning building, and he wasn't even a fireman."

"You should be one."

"In the interest of differentiation, we'll call the one that was burning, uh, hm…"

"Mihael."

"Uh, Mihael. And, the other one was called…"

"Zebra."

"…ok. So, Mihael and Zebra decided to work together to defeat this horrible monster called Kira. It was hard, at first. Mihael was all burned up on one side, which actually made him look super sexy. And he always insisted on wearing these clothes that were made from dead cow skin, like his own skin wasn't good enough."

"You're one to talk."

"Yeah, I guess Zebra also wore clothes like that, except that his vest was made of pretend dead animals' skin. And uh…why are we so off topic? This is what happens when I try to multitask on an important job. So, Mihael and Zebra worked their asses off trying to figure out how to kick Kira's ass, and loads of shit happened. In the process, they became BFFs. There was just this one problem, which was that Zebra was kind of crazy and always acted like he wanted to die. But he didn't really. Only Mihael thought he did, and that made him all depressed and angry.

"So, they were looking for Kira, who had this monster comrade called X-Kira, and Mihael and Zebra tried to find X-Kira in order to get to Kira. Mihael acted all heroic and said he wanted to go into the monster's lair alone, and Zebra was pretty mad about that because he didn't want Mihael to get hurt, but in the end, he agreed to help him. Uh, this is a really boring story. Ok, lemme think what happens next…"

_On the contrary, I think this is a very interesting story._

I never do find out what happens next, as I don't wake up until the next morning.

* * *

**Note #6: watching people sleep is not always creepy**

_Matt: 2:05 a.m., December 22nd, 2009_

It's been a while since I've done one of these. Of course, I only started these after Mello came into my life, ironically. He's asleep as I type this right next to his ear.

I've watched him sleep before, but I only did it in our early days together to keep an eye on his condition. Right now, I'm hyper-aware of him, of the shallow indentation his head makes on my leg, of the rise and fall of his thin chest, of the hand that loosely grips his rosary even in sleep, of the gentle intimacy that descends with slumber.

Back when we just met (this is such an inapplicable term; when you think of meeting someone, you think of shaking hands over a cup of coffee, not dragging a bleeding body out of a warzone), he was as insane as he is now, wanting to go zipping off to New York when he was barely healed. Back then, I took his place for two reasons: I didn't want my just-acquired partner to crash and burn, and I wanted to get some information on him as well as on Near.

Now, though, it's more than that. I…want to protect him. I want him to be safe even if it means risking my life. I want him to be alive even if I'm not. I want…Mihael to always be in this world.

Mihael.

How the fuck did this happen?

* * *

**Predator**

_Matt: 7:14 a.m., December 22nd, 2009_

He still sleeps as I suit up and switch out my goggles for prescription sunglasses. The fur vest is gone—folded and placed under his head for a pillow. Today, I've got to look my best. Today, I'm Mail Jeevas, newly promoted vice director of human resources of the American branch of Mikami's law firm. I also don't actually exist, but so do a lot of things floating around the corporate world.

Today, I have no idea what I'm going to do besides walk into the office, visit the break room, and set off a stink bomb in Mikami's corridor. Genius will strike when it will, and who am I to rush it?

XXX

I swipe myself in to the fourth floor using my identity that doesn't exist, and no one looks surprised to see the foreigner stalking amongst the cubicles. All planned by yours truly; everyone thinks I'm here on a silent inspection at the discretion of the American CEO whose protection they can't afford to lose and who certainly doesn't know he sent an email to the Japanese supervisor securing my visit.

Mikami has his own room plus an anteroom with a secretary in it. He's pretty high up the company food chain. It's better this way; he's isolated from the silent hubbub that ripples through the hall as I pass. He won't notice a thing.

The key is in the timing. I have to wait for Mikami's mail to be delivered to his secretary, and during that grace period when both their doors are open, I need to slip into an empty cubicle, place the mischief inside, and slip away as if I have nothing to do with any of it.

Easy, too easy. The simplicity of the task is really not worth the odor it produces; I draw workers from their desks like bees from a smoked out hive. The busiest bee leaves his nest and comes striding down the hall just as I casually slide out from a side hallway.

If I exude confidence, he'll feel challenged and rise to the pressure. I look up (way up) and make direct, nonchalant contact with the shinigami eyes.

"Ohayou gozaimasu, Mikami-san," I say, laying on the accent a bit. Don't want him to be too suspicious.

"Mr. Jeevas," he responds, and I watch for the quick self-check he'll do wondering if he should have known my name without using the eyes.

It doesn't come; he's trained well. I let him decide what language to use next. Japanese means insufficient self-confidence; English means hubris and condescension.

"What brings you here today?" English, no surprises.

"Just an inspectional procedure the higher-ups are thinking of implementing. More international liaison can never hurt."

"Hm."

Two diminutive aides cross paths with us and immediately scurry away, even though they were headed towards the same exit as us. I take my chances and allow my expression to become faintly unsettled as I stare at the retreating backs of their heads.

Mikami looks too, but neither as quickly nor as nervously as I'd expected. Either the shinigami really isn't there or he's got impeccable self-control. I'm leaning towards the latter.

"Of course, after this incident, I think my first report will be regarding security upgrades. In order for maximum company safety and efficiency, there needs to be someone always watching over us, don't you think?"

We've reached the elevator, but he makes to take the stairs next to it. Thank goodness; I'm doubting my ability to carry on an intelligent, socially agile conversation any longer.

"I think you will find, Mr. Jeevas, that those who watch are often the ones who most need to be watched." And with that brilliant parting line, he sweeps away into the stairwell.

Damn. He didn't react at all to the 'always watching' clause. But that last bit was as good as an admission and a betrayal. The elevator door dings open, and I step in, my iconic memory still sending me bytes of data on how he talked, looked, frowned, walked.

The way he walked…like a predator. No, not a sexual predator, you pervert. Like a lion, a wolf, and here I go spewing learning from Animal Planet that has absolutely no relevance in urban Japan.

He walked with a purpose, and it wasn't 'escape from the stink ASAP.' It was 'get where I want to go in a dignified, timely fashion.' It was 'I know what I want, I know I'm going to get it, so I can take my own sweet time getting there.'

When he walked, he didn't avoid being seen; he wasn't afraid of people noticing him. But he had this thing going where he kind of let his hair fall forward and…what's the word for it? He sure as hell was not hiding; that would imply fear. He was watching, like a predator, like a lion watches a zebra from amid the savannah grass of Tanzania. Kind of like Mello, too.

If you're drinking anything while reading this, you should have spit out at least five mouthfuls by now.

Let me explain. Mello isn't afraid of the world. He kidnaps, he launches missiles, he uses a shinigami as a fucking guard dog. He wants the world to not know of his existence until he hits it, and then everyone will have only moments to realize his supremacy before they die. His specialty is sudden death, and that's kind of how Mikami, as X-Kira, works. Watching from behind hair, computer screens, black outfits, glasses…partitions. Not shields, because they don't think they need protection. Just separators to keep them apart from everything else.

That's some scary shit, I think as I sign out and leave the building. Mello's not in my head. He's behind my fucking eyelids. I see him everywhere.

Is this what they call…?

Oh look! That's Gevanni across the street! Let me go follow him as I not-so-accidentally drop this train of thought!

_[Exeunt]_

* * *

**I Will**

_Mello: 8:19 a.m., December 22nd, 2009 _

_'Gone to visit our lawyer friend. Be back around ten.'_

God. Damn.

So here I am again, left waiting, and to what end? So that I can watch his arrest and judgment on television? So I can see Mikami in my mind's eye, elegantly, self-righteously penning a name I don't even know? So I can pretend I'm mad at him when he comes home, only to regret it when he dies in my arms a heartbeat later?

Matt. Why did you do this? Like you said, you could die.

I know what he would say. 'That's exactly why I'm doing it.'

Is that all he wants from life: to die? He could do that any number of ways. There are so many more ways in this world to die than to live. Unless…he wants to live, but in such a manner that he's always almost dying. He knows that he could die any moment, but he believes that he'll pull through thanks to superior skill or intelligence.

Why would anyone live for the sake of dying? What does he really want?

What can I do that'll make him want to live for life, not death?

I would have to give him a life. Nothing less than a life can be substituted for a life.

(You'll excuse me; there's a new anime craze going around. It's called Fullmetal Alchemist, and Matt is less than immune to it. Hence, I know all too much about equivalent exchange.)

I would have to give him everything.

What's with this 'have to' clause? I _would _give him everything.

I _will._

* * *

**Ships in Bottles**

_Matt: 9:49 a.m., December 22nd, 2009_

"So have you fallen for him yet?" I say to the back of the head less than discreetly trained on the figure on the roof across the street.

Puh. Prepositional phrases are a pain.

Gevanni doesn't go for his gun immediately, so he's matured a bit since last we met. There's no chance of us staying undercover if people see even the hint of a gun shining in someone's hand.

"What are you doing here?"

"Mm, same thing you're doing, stalking the tall, dark, handsome stranger. Oh wait, there's two of you." I sit down across from him and pretend to sip my espresso con panna. It's very lucky, really, how there just happens to be a café on the sixth floor of the building opposite Mikami's. I imagine he goes here for lunch, and I think of the surprise that would bleed through his face upon finding his stalker chatting with a stranger over coffee. Since Gevanni's here, though, he must not frequent this place too frequently.

Gevanni hasn't answered my question nor acknowledged my oblique compliment to him—so impolite. He seems torn between finding out my reason for being here and paying attention to his reason for being here, namely Mikami sipping his office-grade coffee on a bench. I decide to help him out.

"Relax, buddy," I say, even though he's got to be at least five years older than me, "we can talk after he goes back inside. For now, keep your eyes peeled."

Aaand he's just gonna ignore me in favor of starting, nearly falling out of his seat, and whipping out a camera phone to record Mikami doing something exotic. Really, Near needs to train his agents to be less transparent.

"What's he up to?" I ask, because I can't be bothered to look myself.

"Talking to himself," Gevanni says tersely. "Or to a shinigami, perhaps—I can't tell what he's saying."

"Ask Rester then," I suggest. "Oh, but you were going to do that anyways, silly me. You know how to do your job."

Well, he does. He's definitely doing better than I expected, as he hasn't bitten my head off yet.

I amuse myself diluting his coffee with dozens of the little cups of half-and-half on each table. He carries on a nervous conversation with Near and Rester and does not mention my presence. When it is finished, he looks over but does not regale me regarding what Mikami said: another point for his impoliteness score. But then he speaks.

"You remind me a little of Near."

I am not sure that is a compliment.

"The unexpectedness, the brusqueness, the I'm-just-telling-you-to-do-your-job-and-so-not-insulting-you tone. You geniuses have it down."

It's definitely not a compliment, then; more bitter invective.

"You're probably belittling my immaturity in your head right now, sneering at how I'm dishing out my woes to someone who doesn't care. You know what, I don't care either. It's a thankless job, working for Near. I'll be glad when this is all over."

An interesting fellow, is my initial, very understated reaction. I could almost mistake him for another disgruntled cubicle jockey except that I know his boss. Logically, an ordinary person would lose their mind after months of dealing with Near, so for Gevanni to feel the need to vent is ordinary. For him to spill to an almost stranger, though…unless he doesn't see me as such.

I consider our circumstances. We both work for ruthless L wannabes, are vastly underappreciated, and yet we can't not do what we do. What would we do if we didn't?

"I think it's just the inexplicability of the job," he rants on, sipping at his cold coffee. Just goes to show how far gone he is; he doesn't even notice. "Do this, do that, don't bother trying to understand why, and while you're at it, could you just run a few simple errands? Fit yourself into a 2' by 2' by 2' box, walk over burning coals, bring me a golden apple from the garden of the Hesperides."

"Gives the phrase 'bend over backwards' a whole new perspective, it does," I say a little belatedly, because I hadn't noticed he'd left a gap in the conversation for me to fill. "Trust me, I know. Mello thinks I'm a fucking genie, considering all the favors he manages to extort from me. They're a very demanding breed, these Wammy boys."

He looks at me with something on his face that kind of looks like a degenerate smile, dragged down by too many hours on the job.

"I don't mind that I don't understand Near. It might even be better for my sanity that I don't. But I wish that once in a while, there could be some kind of breakthrough, something beautiful that's the result of my blind work. Something I can be thankful for."

I think about the blonde whirlwind who's the reason I'm here and decide I'm rather better off than poor Gevanni. At least my slave driver doesn't give orders from inside a ring of train tracks. My ego is somewhat more salvageable than Gevanni's.

All the same, after I get home and finish deflecting Mello's fury, I give Halle a call.

"How old is Gevanni?" I ask abruptly.

She's more used to 'us' genii and our unreasonable questions, and she replies with all due serenity, "He turned twenty-seven last September."

Too young to be wasting his time. "Tell Near to make him something nice for Christmas. He's been feeling a bit overextended lately. I would suggest ships in bottles if Near is up to the task."

Something beautiful, something I don't understand, something I can be thankful for.

* * *

**Yuletide**

_Matt: 11:11 p.m., December 25th, 2009_

The Kira case stops for nothing, not even Christmas. Christ probably wasn't even born on this day. Record-keeping wasn't exactly stellar in those days.

_"Near's going to have Gevanni touch the note while Mikami is working out."_

I ask idly, "Doesn't anyone notice that Gevanni has a club membership but never works out when he's there?"

Halle ignores me, so I listen for a few more minutes as she goes through Takada's dirty laundry. When it's over, Mello looks up.

"I can't help feeling we're being set up," he says. "Mikami can't not know that Gevanni's following him. He's a lawyer, he notices things. He wouldn't leave the note unprotected at the gym, just for Near's perusal."

**For where your treasure is, there will be your heart also.** (Luke 12:34)

My heart is right across the room.

XXX

It's unusual for me to be this tired this early, but I attribute that to the fact that I've spent almost nine consecutive hours reading the most inane things in a futile effort to find some chink in Kira's armor. Would you like to spend your day reading about five hundred pages of webtext on Light Yagami, Kiyomi Takada, Amane Misa, and Mikami Teru? I didn't think so.

So when Mello gets up and holds out a hand, I take it without thinking of any implications, of the hour, of the date, of handholding itself, of the path our feet take out the door, up the stairs, through another door, onto…the roof?

I shiver; of course Mello wouldn't think to bring anything warm, but then, what's he thinking coming out here at all?

Mello grins, apparently not at all fazed by the cold through his jacket. "Do you like the view?"

"If my body temperature would go up a few degrees, I'd be able to consider it. I've never actually been on a roof before. Is it a Japanese thing? I suppose the population here is so dense that they need all the surface area they can get. Is that why there are so many jumpers?"

The old irritation flares in his eyes at my mention of those brave, brave cowards that see more hope in a splatter on the pavement than in life. "There are plenty of skyscrapers in urban areas worldwide. Japan's not unique in that aspect."

"Hm." I shuffle around, hunched over as I try to combine the principles of minimizing body space and generating heat through movement in order to delay hypothermia. All the while, I wait for Mello finish chewing his cud and spit out whatever's on his mind.

Haha, Mello as a cow is too much for my mind to take. He looks on bemusedly as I try to restrain my chortles. And then the moment strikes me again, that sudden realization of how incongruous we must look. Here's me, one step away from lunacy and frostbite, and here's Mello exuding bovine bewilderment as we shiver on a rooftop eight stories above the streets of Tokyo.

It's strange how I don't even feel it's strange anymore. We might have been doing this forever, living together, working together, being together…

Complementing each other.

"Matt?"

"Yes?"

"If I told you to jump, would you do it?"

Ho…damn. How should I approach this? "It depends. Do you actually want me to jump? What can I accomplish if I jump? Why do you want me to jump? Have we finished the Kira case? Come to think of it, maybe it would be Kira controlling you with the note to tell me to jump—"

"Matt. It's a hypothetical situation."

"Ok, yeah. But a hypothesis still needs a set of circumstances to operate under—"

"God, we'll never get anywhere like this." He steps closer and continues, "Let's say that I jump with you. And the only reason is that we want to."

Eh? Huh? Qué? I zip through exclamations in as many languages as I can think of, including binary and ASL, without finding one sufficient to express my confusion.

Uh, is it normal for us to be this close? I can, like, count his eyelashes. Uh…

"Since you still don't seem to get it, Matt…" he whispers.

Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohsh itohshitohshitohshitohshitoh shit—

"…I love you."

WhatdoIsaywhatdoIsaywhatdoIs aywhatdoIsayfuckfuckfuckfuck fuckfuck...

"Matt?"

I sneeze.

He stares.

"Someone's thinking of me," I explain.

"That would be me," he says in all seriousness.

Damn, so even my half-real-half-fake sneeze couldn't sidetrack him.

"Mello…I…give me a moment here. I…don't remember anyone ever saying that to me."

"Neither do I."

Yep, that's us, the loveless ones. Could anything less than the hand of God have thrown us together? In banal terms, were we meant to be?

But then (and this is the side of me that fell the hardest for the librarian back in the day), who's to say that Mello really loves _me_?

I mean, I saved his life, and somewhere along the way, we became friends, but I'm not really sure what else could possibly qualify me as someone to be loved. There's also the little fact that I'm kind of the _only _person he's been in contact with for a month, so he'd be bound to gravitate towards me no matter what. And of course, he always needs someone to love, to idolize, to be his hero, and Near and L didn't fit the bill. Does he really know and love me as _me?_

Somewhere amid my musings, I sit down, legs extended before me, very much open to the cold. Mello mimics me, sitting with his legs to the right of mine and facing me. As I try to reason with love, I look at him, and all doubt is erased. I've seen him before with a dead face, and I've seen him alive with expression. Nothing could be more articulate than his eyes in the glow of the half moon above and city lights below.

"Don't cry, Mello," I say quietly. Love seems to have some awe-inspiring quality that discourages loud voices. "You'll freeze your eyes over."

He blinks his too-bright eyes and looks at me. I smile. He smiles.

And as I lean forward on my knees to take his face between my hands, I pause to wonder at a thought that hadn't crossed my mind.

Do _I_ love him?

I bend to kiss him, and as our lips touch, I realize that there never was any doubt.

As if in affirmation, fireworks erupt in the distance, and I roll my closed eyes as I figure, Mello planned this moment.

Sneaky little—

"We can go inside now," he says too smugly against my lips. "We can drink hot chocolate and marshmallows and cuddle together. And wake up together and cuddle some more and can we please just go back in?"

"You know, your idea of post-confessional bonding activities sounds rather tame. Would you care for something a little more…energetic?"

"I was hoping you'd see it that way," and then we're kissing again, more urgently, and he's pushing me backwards, and I think this is the earliest I've gone to bed in years.

Of course, going to bed doesn't imply actually sleeping.

* * *

**A/N:** Ehe, don't kill me for leaving you hanging! The lemon is now posted under the name _Wild Nights, _on my profile. You do not have to read it in order to continue with the story, but due to reverse psychology and natural impulses, you probably will :D How clever I am. Anyways, thanks for reading; review if you've got a moment and a heart!


	6. Self-Inflicted Murder

**Chapter Six: Self-Inflicted Murder**

**A/N: **I do not own _Death Note_ or _Another Note_. Slight spoilers for the latter, but who doesn't know its basic premises by now?

* * *

**Promise**

_Matt: 12:19 a.m., December 26th, 2009 _

I know he's still awake because he just hiccupped, his chest briefly rising against my back. "Under the covers, now," I mock-order him.

"How far under the covers, hm?" he asks deviously as he crawls in with me.

"Where I can see your face." I turn to face him and rest a hand firmly on his waist.

"You would still be able to see my face if you lifted the covers…"

"No. I need to be able to do this." I kiss him for a long moment, and he smirks as I pull away first.

"You have a smaller lung capacity," he taunts. He traces patterns on my chest, following the meandering of my tattoos (uh-huh, remember those?). "I can literally take your breath away."

"Figuratively is good enough for me. You better hope you don't do it literally and permanently."

He props himself up on an elbow. "Matt."

"Mello."

"Matt…telling you was like jumping from a building for me, without knowing if you were going to break my fall."

"But I did. And you must have had some inkling that I would, or you wouldn't have risked it in the first place."

He sighs. "Yes, but…I wasn't completely sure. I'm never completely sure of anything about you."

"Like whether or not I'm going to get myself killed one day?"

The words hurt him; I can feel it in the sudden tension of his back beneath my fingers. I pull him forward for another kiss; he pulls away first this time.

"Promise me, Matt…you need to live. I need you to live. I need you to love."

It's the truth if I ever heard it, and it goes the opposite way, too. I can't lose him, but I will if I die.

I look at him; he looks at me.

"I promise."

* * *

**Cold Turkey**

_Mello: 10:10 a.m., December 26th, 2009_

"By the way, as per your promise last night, this will not be happening anymore." I reach over and pluck the fresh cigarette from his mouth.

It takes him a moment to look up from the screen and realize it's gone; then he spins around and stares at me wide-eyed over the back of the couch. I take a drag, lean down, and exhale in his open mouth.

"That…was not what I signed up for," he says, sounding slightly breathless.

"You're going to die really fast if you keep smoking these," I say, snuffing the stick out on the back of my glove. "Not to mention, you could make _me _die really fast too."

He gives me a look that says, we're working on the Kira case, a.k.a. the fastest way of all to die. Out loud, he says, "Guilt tripping is a bitch."

Gotcha.

* * *

**Dice Towers and Elevator Pulleys**

_Matt: 9:16 p.m., January 1st, 2010_

"_Gevanni touched the notebook yesterday. There was no shinigami."_

Hip, hip hooray? Can't really think straight.

_"He would also like to convey his thanks for the Christmas wishes. Near did end up making him a rudimentary ship in a bottle. He's working on a more detailed one now."_

"Pirates of the Caribbean is cool," I say offhandedly. "What's up, Halle?"

_"What?"_

I dangle my phone by its FMA pocket watch charm. It's on speaker, even though Mello's been in the bathroom for the better part of half an hour. I think he's expecting me to join him in the bath.

"You don't normally babble on about things unrelated to the case. Is something wrong?"

She says nothing at first. I count the seconds that elapse. She speaks when I reach 29.

_"We're closing in on Kira,"_ she admits softly. _"It may all be over within a month."_

"…"

_"But,"_ she continues,_ "this period is the most crucial; we can't afford to make any mistakes. A lot is resting on Gevanni watching Mikami. You saw for yourself how tense he is."_

"Are you sure it's not going to all fall apart?" I ask, thinking of the tight-strung man in the café and the even more hyper-aware man he followed. Cut a wire and everything would come crashing down.

Silence again. I'd be getting myself a cigarette right now for the nerves, but Mello might come back from his bath. And bitch additionally about me getting smoke in his open pores.

Halle breathes heavily; I wonder if she's going to favor my quasi-rhetorical question with an answer.

_"I'm not,"_ she says.

* * *

**Another Note**

_Mello: 12:01 p.m., January 3rd, 2010_

"Whatcha writing?" he says from the doorway, shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair adorably tousled from sleep.

I could say, "A harrowing tale of murderous plots, a twisted mind (or two), bloodbaths, sugar supersaturation, and bittersweet defeat," but that would be too melodramatic. So I just say, "A story."

He plops down beside me on the couch. "A story, huh? Who's in it?"

I stop typing for a moment at the unexpected question. Most people would ask, "What's it about?" and from the response gather who's in it. The way he poses the question…

…makes him assume that we're the main players in the cast.

We kind of are, actually. In the sense that history repeats itself, we are.

"It's probably better if you read what I have so far."

"Really?" He sounds astounded. "I thought you'd be the type to squirrel your work away from the world's eyes until you let it explode out in destructive glory."

"Just read." I shove the laptop at him. He looks down at the title page, and his eyes widen.

"I was in Los Angeles at the time of the BB murder cases, but the details of its resolution were never made public. Are you saying L—"

"Read."

He reads.

He looks up an hour and a half later. I meet his eyes evenly, and they're unreadable.

"This is a true story?"

"Would I lie about L?"

"So Beyond Birthday had the shinigami eyes before Kira ever existed."

"Yes…but he didn't know them as such. He had never heard of shinigami, and he wouldn't have used the term when he told his story to L."

"He told L all this?"

"So I presume; I can't imagine how L could have deduced the existence of shinigami eyes otherwise."

He looks down at the screen again, then back up at me. "He really lost, then," he says quietly. "All that planning, all that work, all for nothing. He gave up every last secret, and he survived."

"Do you sympathize with him?"

"I sympathize with _you._" He puts the laptop aside and turns my chin around to face him. "Just replace L with Kira, Misora with Kira's pawns, systematic dismembering of corpses with Mafia shenanigans and blowing buildings up, and Beyond Birthday with Mello. This is the story of you."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say—"

"Shh." In a surprise move, he leans over and catches my lips in a brief kiss. "It is. You and B, second best, never had a chance at truly being L, decided instead to surpass L by stepping outside the law. The main difference between you guys is that _you_ happen to have a noble goal in mind: catching Kira. Which, to all intents, is the same as surpassing L."

His fingers card tenderly through my hair as I ponder my next words. "I suppose I _did _wonder why L told me about Beyond…it couldn't have been pleasant for him to remember. Maybe even then he had an idea of how I might turn out, or perhaps he saw something of Beyond in me."

"I don't even want to think about what Beyond would have been like as a kid."

"He wasn't all that creepy, actually."

"You _knew _him?" Matt asks in shock.

"Well, yes, he remained at Wammy's for two years after I got there and then left for Los Angeles. I was twelve, and he was at least eighteen. We never spoke, though. He kept mostly to himself, and at the time, he hadn't yet sculpted his appearance to look completely like L. Everyone knew something was different about him, or rather _more _different than normal for a genius, but I couldn't have imagined him turning out the way he did. At that age, I couldn't have understood his mindset; now, I could almost see myself following in his footsteps, but for one thing. I think the main difference between me and Beyond, and my ultimate saving grace, is you."

His hands pause, then resume their gentle trail. "Me, you think? Certainly I would have stopped you if you'd decided to become a bloody axe murderer with voodoo dolls and popular manga titles and freaking stuffed animals in hand."

"Idiot," I say lazily. I could almost fall asleep again like this. "I mean, you saved me from repeating what I did the first time. Mafia shenanigans, as you put it. You saved me from throwing my life away a second time."

"Mm, yeah, I suppose."

I think he'll become more eloquent after he gets some liquids with non-FDA approved amounts of caffeine into his bloodstream.

"Maybe that should go in the story, too," I say. "The story of Mello's true love and if only Beyond had had someone like that."

"_Nuh-_uh," his response is swift and obdurate. "If this book gets published, I don't want to have to hide from paparazzi, a.k.a. yaoi fan girls who will swarm the streets trying to catch us making out in between book signings. Celebrity life sucks."

Well, he certainly has optimistic views about this story ever reaching the public eye.

"Honestly," he rambles on, "if this were to be published, it would be after Kira's fall, and after Kira, feral fan girls are a celebrity's greatest fear."

I grin in spite of myself. Sometimes he's just too cute.

"Anyways, what are you actually going to title it? _The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases_ sounds so dry."

I hadn't thought of that.

"I don't know, probably something with a snide reference to the Death Note…" I say thoughtlessly. "Like _Another Note, _or something. Even if we do defeat Kira, it still needs a lot of editing. I mean, I don't even know how to start it, what kind of preface to give. I can't just start it with 'When Beyond Birthday committed his third murder, he attempted to see if a human could die of internal hemorrhaging blah-blah-blah'; people will be asleep by the second line."

"We've got time," he yawns. _Time enough to go back to bed, or at least to activities in bed, _he's probably thinking.

* * *

**Rules and Regulations**

_Mello: 9:33 p.m., January 8th, 2010_

_"Near had Gevanni take pictures of every page in the note. Mikami writes a page of names a day."_

"Does that keep the doctor away or something?" Matt inquires acerbically.

_"Near will request to meet Yagami on a certain day, and when that is cleared, we will construct a fake note and replace it in Mikami's bag prior to the meeting."_

"Hm. So have you tested the one in his bag? How do you know it's the real deal?"

_"Near has ordered Gevanni not to. Obviously Mikami would notice if a new name he hadn't written was in there, and we don't know for sure, but he might be able to tell if a page were ripped out."_

"Fucking ideologue."

_"Excuse me?"_

"Near. He thinks he can do everything without resorting to blood on his hands, without killing anyone. Kira doesn't play that way. You know how much Yagami has given to uphold his 'kingdom.' And how much Mello's given—you have no idea."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here, Matt," I say.

"Yeah, that's Mello trying to be a silent martyr about all his suffering. Listen, Halle: Near can't succeed without doing some things that just go against the grain. Catching Kira is not all fun and games."

_"I'll be sure to let him know,"_ she says, and she sounds a little high and mighty, but she knows as well as we do. Near can't keep his walls up much longer. They'll crash, sooner rather than later, and he'll face the ugliness of a world under Kira's reign.

I'm still unsettled about the note switching deal, though. Gevanni said there was no shinigami—what if there was, but he couldn't see it because he didn't touch the real notebook?

"Matt, check everything on Mikami."

"Again?"

"As many times as I tell you to."

"Yes, master."

He probably doesn't know, but I heard that charged exchange from last week with Halle (the bathroom door is not soundproof). If even the Ice Queen is expressing her doubts, I don't know how much longer we can last. Ergo, we must find the missing link in Mikami's actions, something that will tell us the truth of the notebooks.

The question is, can we find something that might not exist?

* * *

**Sunsets**

_Mello: 4:12 p.m., January 12th, 2010_

Inexplicably, all the news programs are on sports or weather or other inconsequential topics at the moment, so Matt's changed the channel to watch some documentary on how the human psyche arbitrates what is beautiful and what isn't. Typical scientists, trying to slap operational definitions on everything that moves and breathes and weeps. Right now a stunning sunset fills the screen, and the narrator with her golden voice and little white subtitles is singing its praises.

"It's interesting how the sun kind of looks the same when it's rising and setting," Matt says. "I think it's rising in this one."

"It's setting, smart one. Read the subs," I say. I think he's being stupid on purpose.

"No, it's actually setting right now, but on the other side of the world, it's rising," he amends. "What mindfuckery."

"…"

"It's like a more Emersonian version of the half-full, half-empty glass question. Is the sun rising, setting, or just photoshopped red?"

I ignore all the purported mindfuckery of the question and ask, "Emerson?"

"Oh, I forget you're from across the pond," he teases. "They don't teach Emerson in British high schools, do they? They don't even call them high schools, and besides, you went to Wammy's…"

"Psh, I'm not actually British. The name's Mihael, not Michael."

I'm suddenly aware of the silence; he's muted the TV and is staring at me like I've grown extra noses. I could probably make those look good if I tried.

Oh. The name thing. I hadn't expected it to slip out so easily with him. But then again…

"Mihael…?"

"Yeah, Mihael. Surname Keehl."

"Russian?"

"A little bit of everything, or so I'm told. Russian, German, Czech, British, Swedish, Andorran…"

"Mail Jeevas. My unabashedly traditional father hailed from the Emerald Isle, but you know that."

It takes me a moment to remember the whole fields of Erin thing, but I smile. We've finally yielded up that last secret.

* * *

**Full Bed**

_Mello: 2:12 a.m., January 16th, 2010 _

"Why do you still wear this?" he asks as we lie side by side, spent and elated with love-making that never grows old. I don't have to look to know he's fingering my rosary, all bunched up on the wrong side of my neck.

"I don't have any reason not to wear it."

He looks at me, clearly questioning my statement. He knows almost everything I've done to violate everything this cross stands for—made the human soul my fucking playground in this most dangerous of games, Kira-hunting.

"I actually didn't wear it much when I was younger," I say. "I was afraid people at Wammy's would laugh at a genius of my caliber clinging to faith and not facts."

"Tons of geniuses were religious," he rebuts. "Newton, Galileo, Copernicus, Einstein; even if their discoveries contradicted their faith, they found ways for religion to coexist with science."

"Yes, they did, but unfortunately I didn't think so at the time. I only put it back on a few months after I started messing around in the Mafia. In there, it was partly a fashion statement and partly a way to gauge my favor with the thugs—would they sneer or silently accept it? And then, some little part of me crying away in the emo corner of my mind suggested that it was a way to remind me of the real God in a world where Kira was becoming god."

"So the idea was to keep your goal in mind and boot Kira's ass out of the throne of heaven. Not exactly your conventional crusade, but you're anything but that, to put it one way."

"I would love for you to put something else another way." I snuggle closer to him and the ridiculous rivers of inky black tattoos flowing on his skin. They remind me almost of my rosary, although his choice of accessory had more to do with approximating his then-goal of death.

"Again?" He sounds much too hopeful.

"I meant not right now," I sigh, closing my eyes. "Tired."

"Hm, yeah," he agrees. "'Sides, have you thought about how awkward it is having a third naked guy in bed with us?"

The thought, while decidedly blasphemous, amuses me, but really, I don't have the energy to respond…Christ forgive him.

"And the Virgin Mary's picture is on the large bead," he adds just as I'm slipping away. "Sheesh, four people in a bed, two smoking hot asses and two holy voyeurs. This is worse than any Catholic church scandal."

…and this is why I love Matt. Never a dull moment, waking or sleeping.

* * *

**Death Sentence**

_Mello: 1:01 p.m., January 25th, 2010_

"Mello," he says, and he sounds like he can barely speak; he's been sitting there for hours, searching for a needle in a haystack. "I found something that might be the answer."

I almost snap my neck from turning my head too fast and demand forcefully, "What is it?"

"A postal receipt, so tiny I nearly missed it. He bought a microscope online and had it delivered to his door on the 9th of December. Because he wouldn't want to attract suspicion by visiting a hardware store."

"And he wasn't using it to observe freshwater bacteria, was he?"

"Yeah, he seems like the type of guy who would look at his own handwriting for hours to make sure it was really his own. On kami's orders, of course. Kira warned him. He expected Near to try to switch the notes, so he made a fake."

I find that I've stood up in the agitation of discovery. I sit back down heavily.

"What do we do?"

Matt's ever well-timed phone saves us the necessity of answering.

_"Near's plan has been finalized. This is the last stretch,"_ Halle says without preamble.

"Really? Would you care to elaborate—"

I get up and grab the phone from Matt. I turn the speaker off and say, "When?"

_"Mello?"_

Psh, no, my identical twin who's actually a Kira fanatic.

"When do you face Kira?"

_"January 28th, 1:00 p.m. At the Yellow Box Warehouse."_

Three days.

"And you're planning on Yagami telling Mikami to write your names in the note."

_"Yes."_

In the note that you think is fake, my mind supplies.

How could Near not think of that?

Is he trying to get himself killed?

I think about L, Near, Matt, myself, how we're all so reckless with our lives, all we have, and I would smile if it weren't for the current realness of death.

"I'm the one who has to do it," I say.

"No, Mello, we're the ones who have to do it, whatever it is," Matt says.

You might have liked it, once upon a time, Matt.

* * *

**Plan B**

_Mello: 3:19 p.m., January 25th, 2010_

This is it. This is the end.

Mikami's been checking his note under a microscope. He knows the SPK switched it. He knows the one they took is fake. All this time I knew…I knew it.

But what was I to have done?

I knew there was another note.

_Another note…_

Mikami knows where the real one is, but he's not using it. He knows who is actually judging criminals, since he's probably sending her their details.

Kiyomi Takada. It's got to be her, not Amane or Yagami himself.

The question is, does she have the notebook?

I think she doesn't. Mikami had it first, and he's got his pride and his concern for security to keep him from sending Takada a special fan mail package. Yagami would have thought of that too.

If Mikami has it, though…where is it? How can we get it from him?

In truth, I knew the answer from the moment Halle disclosed Near's plans. We don't have time to search for and secure the note before the 28th. We have to force it out of concealment.

If Takada can't do the judging, Mikami will have to do it. He'll have to reveal where the note is. Takada can't judge…(and here's my old Mafia persona rearing its ugly head)…if she's kidnapped and held against her will.

She'll probably have a piece of the note with her, so she can still judge, but Mikami can't be sure of that. Mikami can't act unless he hears from Yagami, who can't act unless he hears from Takada, who can't act unless she knows her kidnapper is dead.

It's simple, really: I'll have to trust Halle to let me kidnap Takada, Gevanni to find out where Mikami keeps the note, Near to put all the pieces together, and Matt not to go crazy after I'm gone.

Everything could go wrong.

Mikami might not have the note at all. He might know where it is if Takada has it. He might have a few pieces saved himself, away from Gevanni's prying eyes. The fuzz might catch me before I get away with Takada and force the whole plot out of my mouth. They wouldn't even let me bite my tongue.

They might kill Matt.

Oh god, no. They can't. They won't. I won't let them. Matt promised me.

Everything could go wrong. It sounds like a game plan.

Then again, so did B's plan. And I know how that went.

_My poor, poor predecessor. Not only was he utterly and completely defeated, but he survived, driving home his embarrassment…he must have longed for death._

_Accept my condolences, B._ And envy me, in whatever hell you're in now, envy me my anonymous quietus.

I know now how the story begins, and what I'll be known as. _I imagine that by the time anyone lays eyes on these words I will no longer be alive. I am the old world's runner-up, the best dresser that died like a dog, Mihael Keehl. I once called myself Mello and was addressed by that name, but that was a long time ago._

_Good memories and nightmares._

* * *

**Last Grains in the Glass**

_Matt: 3:23 p.m., January 25th, 2010_

I'm on the verge of breaking down the door to the bedroom, where the bastard locked himself in two hours ago with a cryptic "I need some time to think, Matt." And then he comes out looking like a zombie and says…

XXX

"I really have rubbed off on you, haven't I?" I say with equal parts incredulity and horrified admiration when he stops talking. "Has it occurred to you that we'll certainly die?"

"I probably will. I'm sure Takada won't try to contact Yagami until I'm dead. You, though…you can escape with brute horsepower. Ditch the car somewhere far away…move on."

"You think?"

He's telling me to live…without him, which I once could have done, before I knew him.

At first I lived because I wasn't dead.

Then I lived because he was alive and afraid of death.

Then I lived because of him. For him.

And now we've got to throw it all away.

"It's ironic, isn't it?" I say. "We came to the land of the rising sun, only to find our sunset."

Oh, Mello.

I walk over to him and sit at his feet, resting my elbows on the sofa.

"Mello, I love you." I don't have to raise my voice. He doesn't make any sound as he cries. "Dying for you wouldn't be the hardest thing I'd ever done. That would be giving you my love. After loving you, there's nothing I can't do."

He tries to say something, but tears are in his throat.

"I love you."

"Shut up," he chokes out. "Kiss me."

So I do. I kiss him until we can't breathe, until our lips stop moving and merely press together, pausing, realizing that we still have everything to do. Figure out the best routes, steal a motorcycle for Mello, check Takada's exact broadcast schedule, make sure Mikami hasn't got anything unusual scheduled for tomorrow…

Everything to do, and we have no time left.

* * *

**A/N: **Yeah, about this chapter's title…horrible, isn't it? :D It's from the song "This Is Gonna Hurt" by Sixx:A.M. I think it's a nice reflection of Matt and Mello's mindset by the end of this chapter. Anyways, listen to it if you like (I prefer the acoustic version, but I guess it depends on whether you feel like rocking out or having emo time at the moment), maybe leave a review while you're at it! Thanks for reading!


	7. Power of a Dead Man

**Chapter Seven: Power of a Dead Man**

**A/N: **This one's short, sorry guys (I find it hard to understand how I can easily spew out 2300 words for an FFN chapter but struggle for five hours on a 1200-word midterm paper o_o).

Don't own Death Note; do you?

* * *

**Breathe**

_Matt: 8:11 a.m., January 26th, 2010_

It's time. The lights are still dim, casting everything in a sickly orange pallor. We stand in the underground garage next to my car and Mello's newly acquired bike. Number 334 will have a nice present in the form of an empty parking spot whenever he or she wakes up this morning.

It's cold down here. I'm shaking, and we can't have that now, can we? Out of long-buried habit (only a month, really), I reach into my pocket and find a pack…

…but I thought Mello got rid of them all?

Oh right. These are the jeans Mello tore off me that first night. They ended up so far under the bed that I only fished them out this morning.

_Well, I promised, _I think dully, and I make to put them away. Mello's hand is suddenly around mine, reaching for the pack, taking one out, placing it between his lips…

…which I may never touch again…

Bemused, I withdraw my lighter from the same pocket and give him a light. He breathes once and hands it to me.

I breathe once, and I understand that this is a cigarette to remember him by.

"Matt, you'll have to stop again after this," he says.

We both know I won't need to.

"Mello…"

"Don't say it," he says, and to his credit, his voice shakes only slightly. "Don't make this any harder for us."

So I kiss him instead, to say all the things we don't know how to say and really, to just hold him once more before we go our separate ways forever.

* * *

**Overture: I**

_Matt: 8:40 a.m., January 26th, 2010 _

It's a few minutes to nine…Takada will be arriving shortly. She'll be wearing some classy outfit that toes the line between audacious and elegant. Her posse will be with her, Halle with her eternally long legs and the other three bodybuilding broads who probably don't know a thing about bodyguarding. The whole adoring host of lesser news coverers will be thronged alongside the red carpet into NHN, snapping pictures and fawning and crooning her name like this doesn't fucking happen every day.

Well, today will be a day that doesn't happen every fucking day. Her car is pulling up in front of the building. Time to go; don't want to be late for an important date, haha. With death and all his friends; how much more poetic can I get?

Breathe, I tell myself, and I inhale from Mello's cigarette. Reverse, mirror, drive, accelerate.

Brake.

Everyone stares around in amazement as I pull up, then ducks to the ground as I fire off the smoke gun. The haze descends, and I'm off.

I have maybe half a minute's lead before I start hearing sirens wailing after me. I smile grimly and think of the Sirens of Greek mythology, those ones who sang sailors to their deaths on jagged rocks.

Master Morgue, here I come.

* * *

**Overture: II**

_Mello: 8:40 a.m., January 26th, 2010 _

Any moment now, I tell myself. There'll be no turning back.

I'm idling on my stolen bike a block away from NHN. The squeal of tires and general uproar alert me, and as I start up, I watch a red car tearing away from the scene like all hell's after it.

It is, isn't it?

I make for the indistinct figures coughing in the cloud by Takada's car. Halle's supporting Takada, and she plays the part so well. Among the faces she puts on for Near, myself, and Takada, I wonder which one is the real her? Have I ever actually seen it? Can I trust her?

I'll have to, as I screech to a halt in front of them. "Takada-sama, it's not safe for you here. You need to get away from here. Please get on."

Halle stifles a gasp, which Takada doesn't notice. She seems to be awaiting the advice of her guard.

"Please hurry, Takada-sama," I insist, the honorific bitter on my tongue.

Doubt is transparent in Halle's eyes, but after a long moment's decision, she gives Takada a gentle push in my direction.

"Please go with him, Takada-sama. You'll be safer this way," she says.

Of all the lies you've ever told, Halle, this at least was a good one.

Takada settles behind me, and I set off in the direction opposite the one Matt took. I'm dismayed at how many squad cars seem to have already gone that way.

God, keep him safe, I pray, keeping just ahead of the other guard cars following me. Someday, not today, we'll go for a ride in the open air, with his arms around my waist instead of this woman's. We'll be carefree and happy for once.

Fuck, what am I thinking?

We're dead.

I swerve into a side alley and smoothly withdraw the handcuff chain from inside my jacket.

_"Where'd you get that?" I ask half-interestedly, as he wraps the chain around his neck._

_"Online," he smirks. "They came when you were out that time, before your birthday."_

_"You were plotting my bloody bondage demise even then?"_

_"What? Well, back then they weren't for you; I just figured we might need them if a hostage situation were to come up. Say we kidnapped Amane, for whatever reason. But now I think they can be put to better uses…"_

_"Which do not include strangling yourself," I say and proceed to untangle him._

_"Hm, yeah," he agrees cheerfully, going on to yank me against him in a full frontal body slam and wrap the chain around both our waists. It goes around snugly twice, and he links the cuffs together behind my back with a satisfied click._

_"Before you ask, the key is in my boxers, so if you don't want to stay attached at the hip, you'll have to get to work."_

_"That's gross, Matt."_

_"That's where you like to put your mouth, Mello."_

_"Not like this, I can't reach."_

_"Maybe you'd like to stay this way for a bit?" he teases; I groan as he not-so-subtly arches his hips into mine._

_(The key was in his vest pocket the whole time.)_

Dear Matt. So unintentionally prescient. I work the cuffs onto my wrist and Takada's. She gives a horrified gasp, but she must be figuring it out by now. It's only in love that her mind power is somewhat deficient. Love makes us all a little stupid.

I drive on.

XXX

I drive up the truck's loading ramp, hop off, and pull the door closed behind us. The chain trails from my left wrist, linking me to Takada, who is immobile with fright. I unlock the cuffs, and she huddles back against a wall.

I don't have to take off my helmet, do I? Yes, I do. Stupid, she has to see my face and know who it is she's about to kill. She'll be the last person to see me alive.

Such sentiments. I mentally shake my head and doff my helmet with a flourish.

"Please take off everything you're wearing and place it in a box," I state in a rehearsed monotone that suggests I've been ordering women to get naked at gunpoint all my life.

In another place and time, her outrage would have amused me. _I'm gay, Takada-san,_ I would tell her. _Or at least the only people I've ever been interested in happened to be male. I notice you've never broadcasted Kira's opinion on homosexuals. Care to comment now before you kill me?_

Oh, the power of suggestion.

The power of a dead man.

I shrug and toss her the thin blanket that's also folded within my jacket (hadn't counted on it being so voluminous when I got it; a lucky strike for me). For the record, this is not a blanket Matt and I ever used; I found it in a cupboard, presumably left by the previous tenant. "Hurry up."

She hurries, and I pretend to look away, but I know she can get her clothes off much faster than that when she's alone with Yagami. She fumbles with the secret things hidden wherever on her person.

I wink at death.

* * *

**Death: I**

_Matt: 9:02 a.m., January 26th, 2010_

Flooring the accelerator is only a turn of phrase - you can never actually get it to touch the floor. Besides, pushing the speedometer to its limit doesn't help much when I'm trying to turn sharp corners ahead of several police cars.

Normally, this would be the zenith of my dreary life: racing toward my imminent death, seeing how many cops I can leave with burned out tires by the roadside. Normally, I would welcome life's 'game over' sign flashing in bold letters across my vision as I leave this world untethered.

But I don't.

But I do. There's no reason for me to shy away from the end, with Mello gone. He, the sacrificial lamb, the proverbial black sheep, is gone. What sacrilege.

Mello's gone, so why should I linger? Twenty-four shiny barrels will do the job for me as the ring of cars draws close around me, and the men in black step out menacingly.

I get out and survey them impassively. "So are you going to shoot or what?" I demand with more bravado than I feel.

Their only response is to shift a little and tighten their grips on their firearms. Then one starts belting out what I presume is the Japanese version of the 'surrender, on your knees, hands in the air' sentence used in every shitty movie shootout scene.

I see they need a hint, so I casually reach down as if to close the door behind me and stray towards my gun. In that moment, several things happen. First, another car drives up. Second, the men in black, oblivious to all else, open fire. Third, I hit the ground with my cigarette still in my mouth, what a boss.

Fourth, I see Mello. Not like, actually, but in my mind. He looks just as he did when I left him, all zipped up in his implausible jacket, shining with that tired brilliance of an angel of death.

If this is dying, I can handle it.

I love you, Mello. Wait for me.

* * *

**Death: II**

_Mello: 10:10 a.m., January 26th, 2010 _

I switch the dashboard TV on, and no surprises, NHN is broadcasting Takada's kidnapping. Then I see the shot-up Camaro on the screen, the driver's door half open, glass from the broken windshield littering the ground. I see the squad cars, two dozen in merciless black, officers securing the intersection with yellow tape, and…

You're gone.

Matt.

I can't hear anything the reporter's saying; it's like I'm in a bubble, with everything in the world turned to liquid, my grip lax on the wheel, my gaze fixed and unseeing. It's a wonder I'm still driving at all.

I switch it off, unable to bear looking at the patch of ground next to the car where they killed you. I sent you to your death._ I_ as good as killed you.

I wanted to save you. Who was I trying to kid? You couldn't have survived in this half-assed excuse for a plan.

You're gone.

At least, says the voice in the back of my mind that sounds like you, at least there's nothing holding you back now.

You're right. I can die now, at peace. Takada can kill me and think that she's saved Kira's kingdom. Near can struggle along, decipher my funeral pyre and maybe defeat Kira. I don't care anymore.

I drive for what must be hours, but they're all one long stretch of blankness. The world around me doesn't exist anymore. I might already be dead for all I know. I take the exit mechanically, and part of my detached consciousness wonders if it was God's last-ditch effort to save my soul that brought me to this church to die. Is He taunting me now, taking away all I had and commanding me to my knees? Am I a modern day Job, bereft of all and still repenting in sackcloth and ashes?

I have everything to repent for except my love. The tears begin to fall, and with something like mingled relief and despair, I pick up my gun.

(Matt's gun, all I've got of him now.

_He holds it out to me, just as I'm about to get on someone else's motorcycle. "For you."_

_"I've already got one."_

_"Yes, but you haven't got one from me. This is the one I was designing."_

_The shadow of a ghost of a smile crosses my lips. "The Christmas present that never happened?"_

_"Only because a much more explosive present happened instead."_

_I sigh and take it. It doesn't look any different from the kind I normally use. "I suppose it can do tricks and everything? Record video from hidden places, sprout machetes for hand to hand combat, possess its own sentient intelligence?"_

_"That, and more," he half-jokes. "Though I suppose at this point, none of that makes a difference."_

_No, it doesn't. But at least it's something to remember you by._

_Matt.)_

The gun begins to rise.

I'm sorry, Matt.

* * *

**Elegy (Once Dead…)**

_1:45 p.m., January 26th, 2010_

Takada shivers in the back of the truck, trying to hold the pencil steady. She glances fearfully through the tiny window in the compartment, ready to shrink back into her corner if they make eye contact in the mirror.

But his head is bowed, and his shoulders are shaking, and his hair hides the scarred, cold face she saw—makes him younger than he is, more frightened, more alone, like she is now. The pencil hesitates over paper, and she hates herself briefly for pitying him.

Then a gun comes up, this time not pointed at her, and she doesn't have time to even think about writing a name.

He crumples, and there's no need for her to write anything anymore, but she does anyways, just to be sure.

Once dead, they can never come back to life. Light will be so pleased.

* * *

**A/N: **Hang in there, friends...tough times ahead. Anyways, my reviews page is open for you to pour out your wrath or tears or general MM love upon me :)


	8. Interposition

**Chapter Eight: Interposition**

**Sprint**

_9:00 a.m., January 26th, 2010 _

Matt.

There's nothing else in Halle's mind as she practices for the Indy 500 in rush hour traffic. She has to save Matt.

Those idiot boys, she should have known they'd get up to something like this when Mello said, "I'm the one who has to do it." And now she's the only one who can save them, but she can't be in two places at once. Matt's closer and in more danger.

She sees the squad cars now, how they're closing in for the kill, and the bright red car so forlorn in the center. She leaps onto the sidewalk, pedestrians dodging right and left; she's got to get to him. She can't let another life slip through her fingers.

The words leave her lips even before she pulls up and wrestles her seat belt off. "Stop!" she screams, but the bullets are already flying.

"Stop!" she screams again, racing towards the fallen figure in the middle. They see her now, they've lowered their weapons, they'll have their suspicions later, but at least she can save him.

Maybe.

"We need the accomplice alive for questioning!" she cries to the stony-faced officers. "Our first priority is to find Takada-sama, not avenge her! She may still be alive!"

Eventually, when calm is restored, they'll realize how much of that was bullshit, but for now, an ambulance is called, and she tries to hold her tears in as she kneels by the body she's afraid to touch. She's afraid he'll be cold already.

"Don't worry about Mello," she whispers. "I'll do my best."

* * *

**In Between**

_Mello: 2:00 p.m., January 26th, 2010_

I open my eyes. I'm standing in a room.

That's important, you know. People usually don't possess the ability to stand in a room after shooting themselves in the head.

I remember everything, but that doesn't explain the here and now. I wouldn't normally be this calm, would I? This is a pretty far cry from how I woke up after blowing up the Mafia base and…meeting Matt.

Yeah, I was a little less than tranquil that time around. You'd think my actual death would rattle me quite a bit more. Especially considering how this time it's not Matt greeting me upon waking, but rather, L.

I don't know where he came from or if he's developed the ability to materialize at will in this dimension, whatever it is. Nonetheless, it is he in front of me, just the same as the last time I saw him, when he told me Beyond's story, wished me well, and disappeared into the world to hunt Kira.

No, he's not the same. His eternally ill-fitting white shirt and jeans are present, his slouch, his thumb to his lip, his unruly hair, but, his eyes…

…they're alive. Ironic, considering that he's dead.

As am I.

He speaks. "I was expecting you."

I half expect _him _to offer me tea like he did once, eons ago it seems now. "I'm sorry, your invitation letter must have gotten lost in the post," I say. I'd forgotten how frustrating his ambiguity could be.

"The Death Note," he says simply. I am not sure if he means that as an answer to my quip or as one of his incomprehensible jumps in thought.

"Explain," I demand.

He looks faintly amused. "You have not changed, Mello," he says. "As always, convinced that I, as L, have all the answers."

"After you died, I stopped thinking that," I say harshly.

"And yet you still sought to take my name, striving against Near to win it instead of uniting against Kira."

"Isn't that what you trained us to do, L?" I take a step back from him and begin to pace the bounds of this place we're in. "What else _was_ there for me to do? If you had never lived and died, what would I have become? Does it even matter?"

_Matter…_

"Of course it does," he says in almost a whisper.

I think he knows what that word means to me.

"Do you remember reading the rule of the Death Note stating that it will have no effect on those with less than twelve minutes remaining in their lifespan?"

"Vaguely," I say dismissively, still pacing.

"I thought it quite unreasonable as well when I first read it," he says. "But I have since learned that in fact, if a shinigami were to write one such person's name in its note, that person's original death would be nullified, and that person would return to life."

I stop dead. "You're…I…what?"

He nods sagely at my confusion. "The idea, I suspect, was to prevent shinigami from wasting their time on people who wouldn't give them much time anyways. The unwritten repercussion of this rule was that the shinigami who wrote such a person's name down would not only fail to gain that person's remaining lifespan, but also lose its own remaining lifespan minus one human year to that person. What is more, Kiyomi Takada wrote your name seconds after you shot yourself."

She wrote my name. What does that mean for me?

L abruptly sinks into his usual crouch on the floor, and without thinking, I join him, sitting normally.

"So does this rule apply for human users of the note?" I ask, my head spinning with the possibilities.

"Interestingly enough, it does."

"But…I died. _I'm_ the one who killed me." I'm starting to see the implications of this loophole, this too-improbable deus ex machina, and I'm not sure how much I can believe. "The Death Note has no effect on people who are already dead."

"Yet you did not die instantly. You were just barely alive between the moment you pulled the trigger and the forty seconds that elapsed after your name was written. Takada was not aware of this rule and its consequences for her."

Assuming Takada's lifespan was fairly normal, dare I believe that…I can live again?

But…what's with this place, then? Why am I not back at the church, where I didn't die? Why is L here?

I wouldn't be surprised if he's learned to actually read thoughts as opposed to just deducing them. "You are wondering why you are here, in this place where you are neither dead nor alive."

I affirm his statement with a blink.

"This is what happens when you die," he says grandly. Again with the ambiguity.

"When you die young, unnaturally, unpeacefully," he elucidates, "you remain on the earth, unwilling to move on. Whatever powers that be have decided that, in order to resolve these wandering souls, meetings like ours would be arranged. The newly dead would meet one person, also dead, and speak with them. A post-mortem counseling session, if you will. Eventually, the dead would decide if they wanted to move on or wander their earthly haunts aimlessly."

"That's how ghosts come to be, isn't it?" I realize, almost immediately hammering myself for the pure unscientificness of my thought and this entire conversation.

L smiles, and the expression is foreign but natural. "Exactly."

"But I'm not a ghost. I'm alive. I've got another life."

"It is yours if you choose it."

I stare at him. "What do you mean, if I choose it?"

"The only time one can be forced to accept the gift of life is at birth, or rather at the moment of conception. From then on, it is one's own choice to keep living. Not everyone wishes to do so, as you will remember."

His wide eyes fix mine, as I think of one red-handed copy of the man before me and of one redheaded, smoke-breathing beloved.

"Is that why you told me about Beyond?"

A minute frown creases his brow at the mention. "I couldn't have known then, but I felt…some discomfited part of my mind wanted to make up for the damage I did to Beyond. Perhaps I was trying to warn you…you were more like him, passionate, explosively brilliant. I was afraid."

"But you couldn't have told me properly?"

"Would you have understood?"

"There are many things I don't understand about you. Nor do I especially want to."

"Yes…Mello, all your life, you have been chasing answers. Nothing could give you greater satisfaction than knowing something, myself included. But…the time has come for you to make the answer up for yourself."

I say nothing. I don't see what else I can do.

"You can make your choice at any time. Near awaits you."

"Don't pull that card," I say, only half irritated now. I know what I'll do, but I don't want to think about Near.

The only one I _want _is gone.

And yet I'm going back. It seems pointless, but I've got to make sure he hasn't died in vain. Nothing can really justify his death, but Kira can try, by dying, the bastard. There's justice for you.

I'm hardly aware that my eyes are heavy and drooping; through a sleepy haze, I see L once more, and I think of all the things I haven't asked him. I decide it's not for the living to be bothered about.

I slip away.

* * *

**Hope Is a Bitter Pill**

_3:00 p.m., January 26th, 2010 _

He opens his eyes slowly, like a wild animal that's been caged in the dark too long. She sits next to the bed where he lies; his line of sight will land on her as soon as he manages to sit up and take in his surroundings. Her hair is shoulder length and black, curling slightly inwards at the tips; her face is bloodless, and her eyes bright like a doll's and just as soulless. Her body is of the slender build that hides dreadful strength. She is a doctor. At the moment, she is his doctor.

He blinks twice, reacquainting his eyes with the rapid movement. He frowns as he tries and fails to understand how he came to be here. He turns his head to the side, sees her, frowns again, opens his mouth to ask a question. She preempts him. "Do you know where you are?"

Her voice is low and comforting, perfect etiquette for the bedside of the convalescent. Her fake badge reads 'Otsuka Rin' in neatly printed kanji, but she speaks perfect English. He shakes his head. She smiles indulgently.

"What do you remember of the accident?"

He closes his eyes, thinking. "I was driving," he says. "I was surrounded by men with guns…I don't know why…"

"Don't try too hard," she says soothingly. "The rest will come with time. For now, you need to focus on healing. You suffered critical wounds, but your recovery will be smooth if you do as I say. The surgery took care of most major wounds, but your lungs have suffered quite a bit of damage, as have the muscles in your left leg. You shouldn't be walking or doing anything strenuous for a while."

He nods absently throughout her doctorly spiel, too out of it to wonder why they haven't bothered to put a cast on his leg, or give him a change of clothes, or even wipe the blood from his cheek where a bullet grazed his face. She silently thanks the heavy-handed anesthesiologist. Soon he'll sleep for much longer. But before that…

"We'll be keeping you here for at least a week to ensure your safe recuperation," she reassures him.

"I don't understand," he says in a gravelly voice. "How…how did this happen? How did I survive?"

She almost laughs at the poor child (he's just a boy, really) and his silly striped shirt like an old school convict's and the empty space where his memories should be. She leans closer to him, forces him to focus on her (the meds keep his eyes bleary), and is about to tell him about retrograde amnesia, not that she really cares.

(It's her job not to care.)

But then the door bursts open, and she looks up in faux surprise and he in weary shock. Three armed police officers storm in; the burliest one hauls the invalid from the bed without so much as a by-your-leave.

"What are you doing, sir?" she cries.

"Taking him for questioning," another replies.

"But…but he's my patient!" she protests. "He's just gotten out of surgery; he can't hold up under the strain of interrogation!"

The largest man leers at her. "That's the point," he pronounces, showing more teeth than strictly necessary for speaking.

The invalid follows their conversation disjointedly, his vision fluttering as blood rushes out of his head from being lifted upright so suddenly.

_They're taking me somewhere for interrogation_ (he stumbles over the word in his still-viscous thoughts). _That's not good, is it? The doctor won't let them take me away, will she? She said not to do anything strenuous, though, and struggling against them certainly is._

He doesn't struggle, but as they make for the door, one of the men strikes a quick glancing blow to the back of his head, and he falls limp. As they drag him with them, the last thing he sees in the room is her distressed expression, genuinely concerned for him.

She smiles again as the door clangs shut. Humans are all the same. Always looking for someone to trust, someone to save them. There was even a sliver of hope in his blurry eyes looking back at her as they hauled him away.

She'll dig it out of his soul and toss it down with her black coffee in the morning.

* * *

**Marathon**

_Mello: 2:35 p.m., January 26th, 2010_

I open my eyes to flames and smoke. Smoke, like Matt used to do.

Matt—

No. Concentrate. I'm alive, but who knows for how long if I stay a sitting duck. I grab Matt's gun from the floor and vault out the driver's side door. Fire consumes the back compartment of the truck, steadily spreading outwards towards the beams of the ceiling in this crumbling building.

I don't bother with Takada; she'll be long gone in a blaze this huge. Did Kira kill her, or did X-Kira?

I don't care. I just want to see this through to the end, and then…

I don't want to think about what happens after that. This web of death, L killed by Kira, me killed by Takada, Takada killed by Kira, Kira to be killed by what's left of L: Near and me…it ends here.

_I_ end here.

…maybe not yet. A car screeches up, and I register Halle's face behind the tinted glass. She parks, scrambles out, and stops short upon seeing me.

"Mello…?" Her breath is short.

In a flash, I'm around the front of the car and into the front passenger seat. "Drive," I snap. I could have been in Los Angeles again, talking to a lounging limo driver. "Drive, before the police catch up to us."

She gets back in and steps on it. "Takada…?"

"Started that fire and killed herself in it."

"And you survived?"

"The Death Note can't affect the lives of others. Kira killed her and only her."_ 'And I don't give a damn' _is implied.

"So, did it work?"

"Did it…" Halle's thoughts are all over the place.

"The plan," I say impatiently. "Did Gevanni see Mikami use the fucking notebook?"

The pause before her next words is excruciating. "Gevanni saw Mikami go to the bank today for the second day in a row, breaking his normal habits. He was unusually cautious when he was accessing his box, but Gevanni stayed hidden."

The bank. The note's there. Of course. All that's left is for Gevanni to replace it with a fake, again.

"So Near knows now?"

"Yes."

I would say 'I told you so,' but it's not the time and place. Silence descends between us.

"Mello, I'm so sorry—"

"Where's his body?" I cut across her brusquely.

"His…body…"

"Yes, I thought you might know, Halle, being Takada's agent and all. Is he in the morgue? The NPA forensics lab? The landfill? The incinerator?"

The list, sharply iterated in a voice that doesn't seem to be mine, distracts me from the actuality of his state of being. I'm trying to keep the pain at bay. Halle's prevaricating just makes it harder.

"He…Mello, he's not…he was in the hospital."

Wait. The _hospital, _meaning he could have been alive when he got there, meaning that they wanted him to stay alive…meaning that…

He _was…_he's not there anymore. Where have they taken him, and why?

"What aren't you telling me, Halle?" I ask in a dangerous voice that masks my dread.

"He…he's been taken for questioning," she says with an uncharacteristic quaver.

"In what condition?"

"He was shot several times before I made it to the scene and stopped them. I had an ambulance pick him up, and he was taken immediately to surgery. I don't know if they're done yet, but about an hour after he went in, the officer in charge of the Takada search crew called. He told me that their interrogators would be starting on him as soon as he could be moved, and that it was out of my hands now."

I let out the breath I've been holding. "So they suspect you of being an accomplice to Takada's kidnapping," I say. I watch the tears well up in her eyes.

"Mello, I had to keep him alive. They were going to kill him, but at this rate they're going to kill him anyways—"

"Halle," I say firmly. "It'll be really anticlimactic if we die in a fucking car crash after all this, so put a stopper on it. I'm glad you acted as you did. Now I have a chance to get him back."

"But—"

"Yes, I'm _going _to get him back. He's mine, what did you think?" I glance out the window and confirm that we're heading where they'll least expect us to be: back in Tokyo. "You stay where you are, Halle; you shouldn't go out now they know you were a spy."

I'll come get you, Matt. I promise.

Halle frowns at me. I roll my eyes at her concern. I don't need anyone else. Just Matt.

Halle's phone rings, and she switches on her headset. She clenches the wheel tighter; it looks like bad news. She abruptly ends the call and stares fixedly ahead at the road.

"That wasn't Near, was it?" I guess.

"No," she says shakily. "The chief investigator. He said…he said Matt's been taken to the Tokyo Detention House in Katsushika. And he says that I'm to go there immediately."

"Don't go. They'll eat you alive."

She says nothing.

"Halle? Don't even think about it. This isn't the time to be playing the heroine."

"Says you," she murmurs. Her phone rings again.

It's Near this time. "Let me talk to him."

She hands over her phone.

"Near. Long time no talk and all that shit, ok. The situation now is: Kira's going to get his filthy ass handed to him in two days if everything goes according to plan, and Matt is in prison. So you know what to do: focus on Kira and leave Matt to me. And tell Halle that she's in more danger than any of us at the moment, and that she's got to stay put."

"Mello," he says, his voice as dry and unfeeling as ever. "Your heroics are admirable, though not entirely unexpected. I will respect your wishes concerning Lidner's safety, as I feel similarly; however, Matt's condition is something I would rather not ignore."

"Yeah, stop pretending you've got a heart," I snap. "You don't know what it's like to lose someone you cared for."

"On the contrary, Mihael."

Figures, he would pull that string. I was young, and I thought I loved. Apparently _he _thinks he loved as well.

"Whatever. Just leave me be. Matt and I will meet you at the finish line."

"Again with that childish competitiveness," he sighs. "Has it occurred to you that this race to defeat Kira has become more of a three-legged marathon between the two of us?"

"You say clever things, Near," I concede. Between Matt, Near, the SPK, and myself, I lose count of how many legs there actually should be. "See you in two days."

Halle exchanges a few words with Near, then switches her phone off. We drive on.

When we reach the outskirts of Tokyo, she speaks again. "If you do manage to bail Matt out yourself and need a place to stay, the SPK headquarters are open to you."

"Your generosity stuns me," I say. "I may indeed take you up on that."

She kills the engine in a dark corner of an underground parking structure adjacent to the subway. "This'll do," she decides. "Can you proceed from here?"

"Is my name Mello?"

She sounds uncertain. "There's something I think you should have." She opens the glove compartment and withdraws…

"His goggles."

One lens is cracked. I take them with shaking hands.

"Bring him back, Mello. Please," Halle whispers.

I nod and get out of the car. Pocketing the two objects I have to remember him by, I join the shadows on the wall. I have work to do.

* * *

**Trapped**

_Matt: 7:00 p.m., January 26th, 2010 _

I wander in the darkness with no sense of time. I have no body and no place in which to locate it. I'm lost. Deaf and sightless, I wait.

I feel I'm sitting on a chair. Scratch that, I'm chained to a chair with my arms around the back. My left leg is immobile, and my torso aches. Physical discomfort aside, there's something snagging the back of my mind, something highly upsetting. I can't remember what it is.

Let me think. My name is Matt. I am restrained in a chair. What else do I know?

I don't hear the footsteps, but I feel the ground shake beneath my feet. Suddenly the earmuffs (ah, so that's what was making my ears itch) slip off, and a voice jars my eardrums.

"Transgressor against the will of our lord, listen carefully."

The rough Japanese reaches me slowly, a booming male's voice, and I wonder who he's talking to.

"You have been arrested for your role as an accomplice in Takada-sama's kidnapping. You are being held indefinitely and will not receive a hearing."

Takada…? She's the lady on TV…she's been kidnapped?

And what's this about not getting any rights? That's absolutely medieval. Is there no justice?

"We will begin with this: what was your motive in abducting Takada-sama?"

I'd like to know too, so I wait for whoever's supposed to answer, but no one is forthcoming. The air vibrates violently, and my head whips to the side as a fist slams into my face.

"You were asked a question. Answer it," a contrastingly high, soft female voice says in my ear, so close that I actually shy away from it.

So they're talking to me? But what…Takada…what's she got to do with me? I don't understand…my aching neck isn't helping.

_"An answer,"_ the female voice reiterates.

"I—I don't know," I say, stalling for time. This is all too confusing.

I imagine the woman exchanging a look with the man, who's built rather like Mogi.

Wait, who…?

"You don't know," she states skeptically.

Mogi. Takada. Kidnapping.

"So the name 'Kira' means nothing to you?"

Kira.

Kira.

The rush of words begins, Kira Death Note killer criminals bastard Amane Kira Mogi SPK Near Lidner New York Kira Death Note Takada Mikami Gevanni Kira Takada kidnapping.

Something's missing here. I know all these names and all their relations to myself, but something's missing. Something linking them all.

"Kira," the man says.

The word hangs in the air, sounds different somehow, and I think of the name on the lips of another man.

Kira.

Mello.

I barely have time to think "What is Mello?" before the memories pour forth: a building of ashes, a bloody almost-corpse, an angel, chocolate by the ton, a string of beads, a kiss on a rooftop, an endless night and day spent just holding him close—

MELLO. The power of his memory forces my lips open, pushes a startled gasp past them, as I realize—

"There, he's snapped out of it," she interjects. "We can proceed now."

"Very good," he responds. "Now, _you." _A hand closes around my neck, large enough to strangle me. "Your vow of silence act is futile. We will have the truth from you, no matter what it takes."

"Additionally, you need not worry about outing your partner in your confession. He can no longer be harmed by anyone," the woman informs me.

My partner…no longer harmed, but that means…

"He is dead. His body was found with Takada-sama's, burned in a ruined church. We are investigating the case as a murder-suicide, unless you'd care to illuminate it otherwise?"

Mello. Dead. Burned to death.

That's not how he was supposed to die.

He wasn't supposed to die, _ever._

Mello.

"He's still in a little shock," the woman says. "He'll be more responsive after a few hours' reflection. Time is on our side."

The man gives a grunt of approval, and the hand around my neck tightens briefly. "Next time we're here, you'll have answers, yes?"

He doesn't expect me to reply, not the way he's compressing my windpipe. The hand recedes, the footsteps become distant, a door slams, and I am left to my darkness.

Mello.

I curse myself amid my tears.

"Mello."

Nothing will bring him back.

Why am I still here?

* * *

**A/N: **Well?


	9. Beautiful and Broken

**Chapter Nine: Beautiful and Broken**

**A/N: **Please note rating has gone up to M, and it's not for yaoiliciousness. This chapter contains explicit violence and a…nonconsensual situation. Probably the best way to describe it…I'm not here to quibble about 'legitimate rape'; that's Todd Akin's job :P Anyways, it's not as graphic as it could be, but it's not exactly vanilla either. Maybe I'm just freaking out because I've never written anything like this before. So here's to first times.

But if I know my fellow FFN-ers at all, the notorious *M* will never deter them - my views might even go up, ha. Read on, then.

* * *

**Shadows**

_Mello: 5:40 p.m., January 26th, 2010 _

The police haven't been by yet, thank God. I give the shadows a sweeping glance and close the door behind me quickly. I can't stay long. They'll be picking up the tip about the stolen motorcycle soon.

It's hard, though, not to linger, remembering these rooms as they were just this morning, the laptop he used for a last minute review of minutiae, the gaming console he threw aside after a moment's reflection, the bed we woke up in, the alarm clock that tolled our deaths…

I shake my head and force myself to think. I'm back on the streets, running and hiding like I did in Los Angeles before the Mafia picked me up. I'm not that out of practice. I know what to do.

I grab everything I'll absolutely need: chocolate, a laptop, sunglasses, all the cash we've got left (some two hundred thousand yen), Matt's clothes (for us to wear, not for memories, and sure as hell not for the smell. I'm not some fucking sentimental girl, and I'm _going_ to see him again). My main asset right now is my mind. That, and the four days' experience I have of wandering Tokyo from a very conspicuous hobo's point of view. I've got to find a place that blends into the shadows and lay low.

Not for long, though.

* * *

**Scream**

_Matt: 9:00 p.m., January 26th, 2010 _

Time has no meaning here; they could have been gone for hours or mere minutes. They don't waste it, though, getting straight to the point.

"What is your name?" the same silky-voiced woman asks.

I see no point in hiding information that has no value to me anymore. "Matt," I tell them hoarsely.

"Surname?"

"Keehl."

I belong to him, don't I? He's dead, but I'm still his…I'll carry his name until I die, may the day be upon me already.

"We have not posted your photograph in public for Kira's judgment yet, but rest assured that our lord shall know your true name regardless of what you have told us."

Don't I know it. In fact, X-Kira already knows it. He just doesn't know he does.

"Very well: answer me now. What was your motive in assisting Takada-sama's abduction?"

Thinking about it, the story is just too complex to tell: the Death Note, Mikami, fakes, dark handsome stalkers; they'd dismiss it as mindless raving. I say nothing and wince as an open palm connects with my cheekbone. Human flesh really makes great acoustics. My eardrums pound. I don't feel the pain so much. I'm almost disconnected.

"We will not hesitate to use as much force as necessary for you to cooperate," she says. "Answer the question if you wish for a merciful death."

At least they're making no pretenses about my eventual fate. I find myself far less interested in my death than I normally would be. In life, I really cared about nothing besides Kira and Mello.

Both are beyond my reach now. I can't bring myself to care about anything.

She repeats the question three times, and each is punctuated with a blow to the face. I still haven't seen either of my interrogators.

She tries another question. "How much do you know about Kira?"

A lot, I could tell her. But the prospect of them beating me to death seems marginally more inviting.

"Do you know Kira-sama's identity?"

Yep.

"Were you hoping to use Takada-sama's life as a bargaining chip?"

Well…in a sense.

"Your motive was perhaps to force Kira to kill Takada-sama. Is this what you had planned?"

Well…

"Did you think that you could deceive the public into thinking Kira had killed Takada-sama? That people would become disillusioned with Kira?"

Stop putting words in my mouth; I wasn't thinking anything of the sort.

"We lied to you concerning your partner," she says abruptly.

What.

"We caught him before he even made it out of Tokyo with Takada-sama. She was wearing a locator, so we traced them to a trucking agency. Takada-sama managed to avoid harm in the resulting firefight, but your partner was shot dead. Your abduction attempt came to nothing; Takada-sama is alive and well, if a little shaken."

No. It can't be. We…failed? Mello, dead, and Takada alive, this is all wrong.

The only thing worse than both of us dying is both of us dying _and _failing to expose Kira.

How?

"So again, there is no point in remaining silent. Tell us everything."

"I'll tell you something," I hiss, my own voice surprising me. "You can go to hell."

The last bit comes out a little strained as the man's huge hand starts crushing my larynx again.

"What a shame," the woman says indifferently. "Maybe we should try a little harder." She sighs and says something inaudible in Japanese. The man seems to respond; his hand leaves my throat, and his footsteps move away and return, followed by a telltale buzzing sound.

Uh-oh, I think vaguely, still spluttering for breath.

"So tell me," she begins, but she's cut off by an inhuman shriek. It takes me a moment to realize it is mine. The taser fizzles gleefully as a few thousand volts snap and crackle through my abdomen. The man taps his foot meaningfully.

"So tell me," the woman starts again with a very smug smile in her voice, "are you a part of a larger anti-Kira organization?"

I think of Wammy's and the SPK.

"We need to root out every last weed of evil in this world, beginning with the stalk from which you sprang," she says poetically. "Answer me."

Another spark, another prod, this time to the base of my neck. I suck a breath in and screw my eyes shut beneath the blindfold, trying to hold the pain in. Her voice is malicious as she asks again.

By the fourth touch, I figure it's not worth it. They're probably just as interested in hearing me scream as they are in actually getting answers.

"What other anti-Kira dissenters are you affiliated with?"

A scream, a strangled sob.

"How did your partner convince Halle Lidner to let Takada-sama go with him?"

Another scream, incessant trembling.

"Kawahara-san, please remove him from the chair but leave his arms restrained."

The hard floor greets me unceremoniously, but I hardly feel it for the pain and the tears. I convulse violently, completely defenseless and miserable.

"We suspect Lidner of being part of the SPK, which was officially disbanded by the United States; however, she has disappeared from the public eye. Any idea where she might be now?"

Immeasurable pain. A blackness behind my eyelids.

"Anything you say can help us. Even the name of your partner could help dig up information."

The voltage stabbing at my skin is nothing; the flood of emotion surrounding Mello washes me away. The pain heightens to a crescendo, and then there is Mello-less, painless, lightless numbness.

* * *

**Plan C**

_Mello: 10:00 p.m., January 26th, 2010 _

Contrary to popular belief, I do know my way around computers reasonably well thanks to Matt's rudimentary training, and the programs written onto his laptop do the rest. The connection at the seedy motel where I've hunkered down is slow and not exactly encrypted either, but I'm sure Matt's laptop takes care of security. Remember, no expert knowledge or top priority at the moment. Within an hour, I have the complete blueprints, background, and prison log on the facility where Matt is.

That's only what's been documented, though. I review the layout and compare it with the most zoomed-in image I can get from satellite images. I can't be one hundred percent sure, but the results seem to confirm what I thought: most of the obvious infiltration routes (air conditioning vents, windows, possible tunnels) don't actually exist.

So the blueprints were a decoy, meant to mislead amateurs. I thought they were a bit too easy to get my hands on. Now it's a matter of where the real ones are.

Matt won't like this; he was always griping about the hacking he had to do for me and the security breaches that could be traced. But he'll be glad I learned as much as I did from him. It'll save his life.

I'll need to access the entire prison system mainframe. With my current means, that'll take probably two hours, and right now, time is my enemy.

What must be done, must be done. I hit 'run' and wait.

XXX

Looking over the real maps now, I see a couple ways to get in and from there, to get to the section where they most likely have Matt. Getting out with him is a little trickier, but not impossible. The hard part will be getting _him. _As in actually neutralizing the personnel surrounding him. There are only so many guns I can hide inside my jacket before moving becomes difficult. A firefight in confined prison quarters isn't ideal if we want to get out alive, but sniper fire will be difficult to pull off with all the cameras everywhere. I could run a loop, but I'd still have no guarantee that they wouldn't notice before I made it in.

Never any guarantees when it comes to him. He caught me off guard the moment he threw me my gun back when we first met.

I examine the one he gave me today and snort softly as I find my name engraved on the stock, just as it was on the old one. If this is just a replica of my own gun, it should have the hidden compartment. Wouldn't it be just like Matt to send me a deathbed message?

My fingers trace the familiar contours hiding the slit in the weapon, wondering. The worst that can happen is that there's nothing there. No last words.

It's not like I'll never see him again.

I slide the catch open and shake out a folded sheet of paper.

_Dear Mello,_

_I'm waiting for the right occasion to give this to you, since Christmas, New Year's, and your birthday have passed, and Valentine's Day is too far away. Whenever you read this, I want you to know that...I love you._

_There, I said it. I love you, and I'm giving you a gun to show it. Fun fact: Quillsh Wammy created the initial theory; I hammered out the final design. The idea behind it may be distasteful to you, but you should understand the psychology it takes advantage of. I don't even know why this popped out at me in particular when I was hacking Wammy's files a few weeks ago. It just struck me as this bizarre connection between you, Wammy's, me, and my dying thing - not that that's relevant anymore. I'm guessing you probably want to bash my head in now for withholding information from you, so I won't hold off any longer. Read on._

I imagine my eyes must be blurring as I read through the last page in mere seconds, then rereading just to absorb what I can do with the information.

It's like he predicted this would happen.

I close my eyes and think. Everything has to be perfect. This is my second plan in two days, but unlike the first, this one is going to work.

It has to work.

* * *

**Nightmare: I**

_Matt: 7:00 a.m., January 27th, 2010 _

Mello leans down towards me, his eyes holding mine, bright with desire, his lips enticing me. He teases me, letting his fingers brush the seam in my jeans as he climbs over my supine form to hover above me. He touches his forehead to mine, his lips are so agonizingly close, and he breathes, "What do you want me to do, Matt?"

"Kiss…kiss me, Mello," I plead.

"Ask politely."

"_Please, _Mello!"

"Tsk, so eager." But he bends and allows his lips to descend on mine, I press back, and for a moment, it's bliss…

…but the touch is all wrong. His lips are rougher than this, his hands in my hair aren't supposed to be so smooth, his taste should be chocolate, not lipstick. I open my eyes to see nothing; I feel a cold floor beneath me, cuffs around my wrists, something holding my legs down, and a light weight resting on my stomach.

Hands slip under my shirt; their touch is foreign and cold. This isn't right.

I twist my head away from the kiss and try to raise my arms to let myself see, but they're trapped under my back. Then, her voice assaults me.

"Who are you thinking of?"

Who are _you?_

Not Mello, my mind registers desperately, and as she pulls me back into a kiss, I struggle against her. There's no trying to kick her off; the man is stepping on my legs with enough force to break them. She's light, but positioned just so I can't arch my back and throw her off.

This is not supposed to be happening.

Her fingers crawl up my ribs, pushing my shirt up to my neck, and she pulls away from my lips. She's staring at my tattoos. The ones I told Mello I got just to experience the pleasure of pain.

There's no pleasure now as she starts tracing the shapes across my skin. They're not for her to touch, they're _Mello's_, they're not hers. I twist and struggle fruitlessly, and she laughs at my discomfit.

"I thought you would have this response," she whispers, her breath falling on my neck. "You were most distressed when we asked about your partner. You wept when you heard he was dead. You cried his name. You _loved _him, didn't you?"

I shudder at her words; she continues her caresses, pressing harder against me as I struggle.

Mello, I'm sorry.

I hate this.

I need you.

"Stop," I whisper.

She ignores me. Her lips come down onto my chest, her hands pushing my shoulders back into the ground. She kisses and sucks and licks in the vilest manner, and I can't help it, I beg.

"Stop," I whisper, and she hears me as she drags her teeth against my neck. My breath catches.

"Stop, please, _please _don't do this anymore," I plead. I'm breaking, I can feel it, she's sick and she knows I'm responding to it, but I don't _want _this. Only Mello can touch me like this.

"Please, stop, I can't take this, stop, _please—I'm begging you, stop this PLEASE—" _My voice rises, reaches a scream, and she lifts her lips from my body with the air of a sated hyena looking up from a carcass.

"He's cracking," she announces to the man still holding my lower half down. "But you liked it, didn't you?" she says to me.

I can't speak; I'm choking back sobs.

"Don't pretend; I can feel it."

No, oh god, please—

A muffled scream escapes me as she drags her nails across the thin fabric covering my shame. She giggles and stands.

"I'll tell you the truth this time. We only found Takada-sama's body at the site of the burned church. Her kidnapper is presumed to be on the run."

No…it can't be…

Why would they lie to give me hope?

He's alive?

"No…" I say faintly.

"Yes," she contradicts me. "You really thought he was dead? And yet you remained so loyal to him, not saying a word to answer our questions, and even resisting my loving touches so violently."

"You…sick bastards…he's dead…you said he _died…"_

"How could you doubt his ability?" she taunts. "How could you not have faith in your true love, _Mello?"_

Don't say his name. Don't you defile it with your lips, you harpy.

Mello.

No. I can't let myself hope. I don't know if they're lying.

"We'll catch him soon, though. He shall die, do not doubt that. The least you can do is give us information on him."

"Fuck you," I manage. "I'll never…betray…him."

And she just laughs as I choke the words out between the man's almost idle kicks to my gut.

"If you tell us even the slightest detail to help catch him, we may let you see each other once before you die."

Fucking…

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Of course, you wouldn't be allowed any contact," she purrs. "Just a last goodbye."

That's already been said and done. I'll never see him again.

"Put him back in the chair, won't you, Kawahara-san?" she instructs the man. "I don't want him touching himself, or hurting himself; he's such a little martyr."

He steps off my legs, hauls me over a span of the floor, and secures my arms to the back of the chair again. With a parting blow to the jaw, he departs, and she with him.

Slumped here in despair, I still cannot see, and my blindness forces me to see inside my head. Mello's face floats before me, so beautiful and so far away.

Mello, I'm sorry. I don't know what to believe. But I know I'll never see you again, so it doesn't matter, does it? They can violate me all they want, and eventually I'll expire, well, not happily, but at least willingly.

I'm sorry, Mello. For breaking my promise to you.

Mello.

* * *

**Nightmare: II**

_Mello: 8:00 a.m., January 27th, 2010_

I stay awake into the night and the morning, planning, revising, checking and rechecking, not letting a single detail escape me. I won't let Matt down.

I've had worse stints than this; there were times in the Mafia when I didn't dare sleep a wink or even turn my back for fear of a bullet in my head. Even in Wammy's, we did fatigue-resistance training. The nights have been long with Matt recently, thanks to the Kira case and...point being, I'm no stranger to exhaustion. I should be able to go well over twenty-four hours without sleep. So when I open my eyes and realize I'm not in that peeled-paint motel room anymore, I'm at a loss as to what's going on until I see him. Matt.

He's kneeling on the floor, hands cuffed behind his back, and the sight would be a definite turn-on if he weren't shaking and bleeding from almost every visible patch of skin. A man in uniform stands over him, his back to me. He's thin, about my own size, which surprises me; most mercenaries in the mob were great hulks of men (beasts). More importantly, he's holding a knife to Matt's neck.

_Don't you dare touch him,_ I seethe, my mind commanding my muscles to open fire on the man, but I'm dreaming, and this isn't one of those choose-your-own-adventure stories. I can't move; I can only watch with increasing trepidation as the man yanks Matt's head up by his hair and lightly traces his exposed throat with the tip of the knife.

_No, _NO, I mouth silently as Matt flops lifelessly in his grip, too worn out to even resist. _You _can't_ kill him!_

_Can't I?_ The unspoken challenge taunts me as he draws the knife agonizingly slowly through skin and flesh. Blood sprays as Matt falls face down, soundlessly, and the man turns to face me—

It's not a man.

It's Takada.

I blink and gasp, sitting up in a panic. The darkened screen of Matt's laptop and the off-white walls and faded curtains of the room greet me, Takada's face imprinted on them briefly, mocking me. My heart is racing, and my hands are cold and sweaty. I reflexively reach for a bar of chocolate on the nightstand but stop short. Fuck, what can chocolate do for me? I need_ him_.

Matt.

It was a nightmare; it wasn't real, I tell myself. I don't have a family history of premonitory visions, do I? I do have an overactive imagination. But then…how much of that could be reality? His shattered body flashes through my mind, and I struggle to suppress the bile rising in my throat. I recall the anguish in Halle's expression when she told me they'd seized him for questioning; she knew their methods would violate every code of humanity in existence. All the things they could be doing to him right now, and what am I doing? Nodding off over work, that's right.

Mihael, wake up. Someone—no, _the _one that you love is hurting right now. Get the fuck on over there. No amount of touching up will improve your plan now. What you need to do is act.

These past two months with him have been atypical, to say the least. It's not every day that your future other half pulls you from a burning building and sews your body and heart back together.

I felt the imbalance from day one, but it wasn't an unwelcome change. I've always had to look out for myself, never let my guard down; that's how I got where I did in Wammy's and the Mafia. Then Matt came into my life, and some switch got flipped, because then I became the damsel in distress with her knight in striped shirts, and Matt was the one watching over me, holding me up, risking his life for me.

What's to stop me from doing the same? I can't go wrong, not with Matt's life at stake.

I'm almost there, Matt. Hold on.

* * *

**Dead is the New Alive**

_Matt: 9:00 a.m., January 27th, 2010_

"Won't you tell us what we need to know?" she wheedles as her accomplice crushes the life out of me via my windpipe.

I remain silent but for my reflexive struggling against the unseen hands. I have to wonder, _why am I still alive?_

_Am I still alive, or am I dead and in hell?_

_I'm as good as dead without him. Is that my hell - to be forever separated from Mello, dead or alive?_

_Am I alive am I alive am I dead am I dead dead or alive dead or alive or alive dead or alive or alive dead or alive dead._

_Dead._

As the blackness seals my eyes shut, a very small voice tells me, _you are not dead because your will to live is still alive._

Fuck you.

Dead is the new alive.

XXX

"You've let him pass out again, Kawahara-san," she observes. "He can't exactly talk if he's not conscious."

"He won't talk even if he is conscious," he says. "We're wasting our time here. The investigation team needs to step up their search for the kidnapper. Don't you agree, _Rin-chan_?"

I would normally register at least two important pieces of information from their conversation, but with my brain as oxygen-starved as it is, I can only stare at nothing and wait to resume full consciousness.

"_Rin-chan _thinks we need to be on guard for the very one you are talking about," she says deliberately.

The next moment happens instantly for me, who cannot see it; a shot rings out, a door clangs open and shut, and a voice that I remember speaks.

"Found you."

* * *

**Tableau**

_Mello: 9:45 a.m., January 27th, 2010_

For all its reputation as one of Japan's highest security facilities, the Tokyo detention house wasn't exactly impossible to get into. All I had to do was take down one civilian janitor and one guard watching the main camera feeds, screw with the system just enough to keep them from knowing I was there, and put on another hideous uniform. Then, it was a matter of shooting the lock out and going in with guns blazing.

Then, it's a matter of not choking on my own tongue when I see Matt.

They've got him chained to a chair, blindfolded and still wearing the clothes they shot him down in, still as bloodied as the pavement that he bled onto, that I saw on the news.

Still alive.

"Found you."

Only then do I look up at the two people standing behind him, though I automatically raised my gun to a point equidistant between the two of them. One is a large man, nothing on the scale of Rod or any of the mafia, but clearly chosen for his bulk. The other is a slight woman, his opposite in every way, and part of me wonders if they're supposed to be a good cop-bad cop setup.

Considering how much damage Matt's sustained, I think they're both bad cops.

Both have their guns leveled at me, and the woman backhands Matt across the face without looking away from me.

"Your lover's arrived," she says mockingly. "How lucky that we didn't even have to go find him."

Matt stirs and questions in a raspy voice, "Mello?"

I barely trust my own voice to respond without breaking. "Matt. Don't worry, we're getting out of here."

"Perhaps," the woman says. "But not for a while, and certainly not alive."

"Good," I smile. "That's what I was planning on."

Slowly, dramatically, their eyes track my gun as it turns to face me. Matt, who doesn't see any of this, shivers in the silence, and the sound is like needles under my skin. Soon, he'll know.

Cool metal kisses me between the eyes; they think I'm bluffing? Well, I am. They just don't know that for sure.

"You can't get to what's inside my head if it's blown to pieces," I remark morbidly. "Too bad, huh?"

Matt gasps; the man stares dumbfounded; the woman holds her gun a little higher.

"You won't kill yourself," she snaps. "Put the gun down, or we'll kill him."

"You will anyways, won't you? At least we'll die together."

"Mello," he says, panicked. "You…what do you think you're doing?"

"They want to interrogate me, Matt, but I won't let them," I explain. "I know you haven't told them anything, but I'm not that strong. I'm ending it here, so they won't be able to use me against Near."

I saw to it that the surveillance of this room was tampered with, so nothing I say will come back to slit my throat. We won't leave any witnesses for that. It physically hurts me to say these words to Matt, but soon nothing will hurt anymore.

"We know you won't do it," the woman blurts out again. "If you were going to kill yourself, why would you go to the trouble of breaking into this place?"

_Very sharp, woman. I hate to sound misogynistic, but you're a little too quick for your own good._

"Mello, don't fucking do it."

…Matt?

But you as good as handed it to me with this gun.

_This is how it works, and keep in mind I'm dumbing it down significantly for you, because I doubt they taught Gunmanship 101 at Wammy's. Not really a safe topic to cover in a house full of unstable geniuses. Basically, when you pull the trigger, you need to bring it up and away from you, assuming you're pointing it at yourself. This reverses the firing mechanism so that instead of exiting the barrel, the bullet gets propelled down the barrel, stopped short by a barrier activated by the trigger, and fired in the opposite direction, coming out from the other end, that isn't apparent from the outside. The one inconvenience is that you have to load the magazine backwards so the bullet faces the right way. It fits well, but then you'd have to use all the bullets in the same way, or else alternate mechanisms and memorize the order of your bullets. Think about it. I swear I tried, but there's only so much I can do. I also included a silencer and front and rear sights in the final design; hope that helps if you should ever come to need this. If you really want to know the physics of it all, read the back page. That's the just the condensed version._

_In his notes, Wammy called this the Suicidal One-Hit Wonder in an unusual display of black humor. I know, it's not funny to you, but think about it: the one thing you can do to make your enemy let his guard down is give up. If you throw your hands up, they'll put their guns down. Okay, maybe not literally, but a decrease, however marginal, in the opposite party's alertness can save your life. There are two possibilities: they'll panic and let their good guy side come through ("We can't let this guy kill himself! It's against heavenly and earthly law!") or they'll do a victory dance ("Excellent, he wants to do our job for us"). Either way, the distraction can only have positive consequences for you. It's all in the timing and the numbers you're dealing with. I don't think I need to explain anymore._

_(Wammy wrote another footnote about possible situations in which using this mechanism would lead to your own capture, specifically citing the capture of Kyosuke Higuchi on October 28th, 2004 and his own role in shooting the gun out of the man's hand. Mean anything to you?)_

_Love,_

_Matt_

From Matt, with love. He fucking knew I would need this. And yet he says, don't do it.

It's time to detonate. With a triumphant grin, I face my enemies fully and pull the trigger. Twice.

You only need one bullet to kill yourself.

* * *

**A/N:** I…don't really know how I feel about this chapter. So I'll let you tell me.


	10. Confirmation

**Chapter Ten: Confirmation**

**A/N: **Greetings! I come bearing news, whether good or bad depends on you. This is the second to last chapter! The last chapter is almost finished, so you only have a few days to wait before it is posted as well.

This chapter is rated M for blaspheMy and leMons. Not the kind that gush orgasmic juices and exude suffocating citrine vapors. I'm going for more of a gentle lemonade taste that will leave you refreshed and energized…ok, I'd better stop before you cease to take me seriously altogether. Enjoy!

* * *

**Reunion**

_Mello: 9:50 a.m., January 27th, 2010_

The silencer muffles the shots, but I hear them in my head and in the way he whispers my name when the bodies have fallen.

"Mello."

The crackle of his voice, dry and sandy and full of horrors unnamed, stirs me. I move to kneel in front of him and reach up, lifting the blindfold from his eyes. I look at him properly for the first time since I broke into the room.

The shadows under his eyes are deeper than I've ever seen them, and they aren't just from lack of sleep. He probably hasn't eaten in thirty-six hours, courtesy of the Kira supporters' hospitality, but his eyes and cheekbones make him look like starvation's poster child.

A child, did I call him? He does look like one, with the way he's slightly hunched over despite the handcuffs linking him to the back of the chair. Suggests internal injury, seek medical attention immediately.

That's right. Post-reunion sentimentality can wait. I've got to get him out of here…

"Mello."

Yes?

"I thought…I thought you were going to…"

Kill myself? I already did, but that was in another lifetime.

I realize this is the first time I've seen him cry. I place a hand on his knee and look up into his unshielded eyes as my own prickle.

"I thought you were dead," he gasps.

So did I.

"And then you were alive, but then I thought you were going to die again."

So did I.

"I knew you wouldn't _want _to kill yourself; you had the gun, but I never tested it…I didn't know for sure."

Neither did I.

I curl my other hand around his neck. There are angry red imprints of desecrating hands there, but they'll fade.

"Now you know how it feels," I say gently, not accusatorily. "How it feels when the one you love stands on the edge of death. How I feel about you."

"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "I'm sorry, Mello, I swear I'll—"

I place a finger over his lips crusted with blood. "There's nothing to forgive, Matt."

I pull him down to kiss away all his unspoken fears, and he tastes like metal tang and salt water and oh God, _Matt._

Where have you been all my life?

Finally I straighten up and wonder at how we haven't been discovered yet. I circle around the chair and go through pockets until I find a ring of keys in the man's pocket.

"Gotcha." I return to Matt's side to unlock the cuffs and can't stop myself from kissing his abraded wrists. He actually blushes. If I'd known he'd be this cute with me as seme, I would have fought him for it a month ago.

We've still got time. We have forever.

"Can you walk?" I ask.

He snorts, rising awkwardly and half-standing. "They shot up my left leg like it was last Christmas's ham."

"Never mind then; this is faster." I scoop him into my arms in a move worthy of a Disney prince. (Do they actually have names? Everyone knows the princesses by name, but what the fuck are the princes called?)

He's surprisingly quiet in my arms, and I wonder why he's so docile until I follow his eyes. They're wide and haunted as they look at the bodies on the ground behind the chair.

"Don't look," I say, covering his eyes hastily.

If only it were so simple to erase the sight of death.

* * *

**Chicken Soup**

_Mello: 11:15 a.m., January 27th, 2010_

The doors slide open soundlessly, and Halle stands before us, lips tight with worry.

"Oh, thank God you're safe -" she begins, but I cut her off with a finger to my lips. He still sleeps in my arms.

"Upstairs," she says in a more suitable whisper, gesturing towards the elevator. "Your pick of rooms; they're all stocked with first aid and necessities."

"What is this, the Hotel SPK?" I snort as I step in. "You seem a bit too prepared for someone who rarely gets visitors."

She just gives a small smile as I press the button for the next floor. It occurs to me just as the elevator doors are about to close in her face. "You'd better turn off the camera feeds to whichever room we're in!" I hiss at the sliver of her hair I can see through the gap.

I swear I hear her chuckle.

I gaze down at the sleeping figure I'm holding, beautiful even with black and blue marring his perfect features. I sigh and relax.

We're going to be ok.

XXX

He stirs and wakes when I bump his leg on the bathroom sink - oops. And I was doing so well.

"Mello…where are we?" he murmurs foggily.

"SPK, of course," I say, setting him carefully on the counter. "Can't go back to our place."

"Oh."

I rummage in the cabinet under the sink, searching for medical supplies. "Besides, it's better for you here. The heat actually works, the sink doesn't shut off when you take a shower, the walls don't smell like mold…" Ah, found it. "Anyways, time for me to play doctor. Strip."

He huffs but complies. I clench my teeth as I take in what they did to him. Bastards…I take a deep breath to steady myself.

"This'll hurt," I warn him, reaching for a washcloth. "Especially where the skin's broken."

"Can't hurt worse than when they were doing it to me," he says emptily.

I wet the cloth in warm water and gently dab at his wounds; bruises mottle his face and torso, while rings of red encircle his neck and wrists. I shudder briefly before retrieving the Neosporin and cotton balls.

He says nothing as I wrap his cuts and scratches, wincing occasionally. I sit back on my heels to start on his left thigh, and he tenses. I look up worriedly. "You ok?"

His narrowed eyes say no, but he says, "Yes."

"Am I hurting you?"

"No."

I frown internally. He's clearly not ok. I wouldn't expect him to be after this ordeal, but…what can I do?

He lets me finish taping him up, and I feel minute tremors running under my fingers on his skin.

"Matt…"

"Just…don't," he grits out. "I'm ok, ok? I just…it's not like you'd know, would you…"

"Know what?" I say gently.

"Forget it. Just…just give me a moment to myself? I can take a fucking bath by myself, ok? Just go…please."

The last word comes out as a half whisper, and it tears at my heart. I can't leave him, but…

He flops off the counter and slides himself over to the bath; I snatch back a supporting hand just in time. He turns his back, a clear dismissal, and fiddles with the knob.

Matt…

"Right then, I'll go downstairs and get some ice for your eye. And something to eat, 'kay? I'll be right back."

I pride myself on keeping my voice straight. Without waiting for a reply, not that he would have given one, I slip out and close the door softly behind me. For a moment, I brace myself against the wall and blink gratuitously. I shake my head and leave the room. I hear the bath water running behind me.

XXX

"Just take it all with you. There's a cooler in the bottom cabinet to your right."

I look up from the freezer, where I'm packing all the ice cubes into a bag. Halle seats herself at the stainless steel table (Near's taste in furnishing, no doubt). I finish stocking up on ice and lean against the closed door.

"How is he?"

"…not well," I confess.

"Is that an understatement?"

She knows us, better than anyone in the SPK. The words tumble uncontrollably from my mouth. "Yes… physically, he could be better, but he's nowhere close to critical condition. Emotionally…I don't know what to do. I was bandaging him up, like a caring partner, and then he got all skittish and it was like he thought I was going to hurt him, like he was seeing his torturers again, and he just up and basically told me to scram, and now he's probably sitting in the bathtub crying and I don't know why I can't reach him."

She watches me wordlessly, knowing not to comment until I make it clear that I have nothing more to say. I pretend I've got something stuck in my eye and look around. "Where is everyone?"

"Gevanni is in his room working on the note," she replies. "Near is with him. Rester is out finalizing plans for Mogi and Amane's transport tomorrow."

"Ah." _Tomorrow._

"But more importantly, Matt," she continues. "He needs you, Mello. You may not realize it, but you are his weakness."

I fiddle with some fluff on my shirt (his, one of his less fashion-offensive long-sleeved ones, that says 'Whatever it is, I'm against it'). "So?"

"So last November, when he came to get your picture, I imagine you had wanted to go yourself, but he didn't let you. He had some free will back then. But that changed over time. _You _changed everything about him."

"He probably could have thought of a better plan," I say morosely. "If he just had a few hours to think, this all might not have happened."

"Perhaps not," she says, rising and brushing past me to open the refrigerator. I scoot away and take her seat at the table. "But the past is what it is. What you need to focus on now is how you can make it up to him." She turns around with a bunch of grapes in her hands. "Do you have any idea what his torturers did to him?"

"I can see the evidence on his body." I don't need to be reminded.

"And his heart?"

I watch her wash the grapes, each one plinking into the water as she tugs it from the stem.

"His heart is mine," I say irrelevantly.

"But it was there for them to torment as well," she says. "I suppose your Mafia thugs never learned such finesse, but Japanese T&I personnel know their way in and out of a person's head. They would have sucked the memory of you out of Matt and used every last drop as poison against him. They could have told him they'd caught you and were torturing you even as they spoke. They could have said you'd snapped under the pressure and betrayed everything to them. They could have said they killed you. They could have said any number of things about you, and given the weakened state he was in, he would be unable to distinguish the truth. Even now, he could be afraid of you because of how much pain the thought of you caused him during his imprisonment."

_Is that what it is? _I'm _the one who's brought him immeasurable pain?_

_But of course._

"What do I do?" I whisper, audible even over the sound of running water.

"What would you want him to do if you were in his place?"

"I…I would want him to stay close to me…even if my mouth said otherwise. I wouldn't want him to let go…" I get up abruptly. "I've got to go."

I'm two steps away from the door when she calls, "Take your things with you!"

…right. I grab the ice and the bowl of grapes and almost make it out of there, but I turn again.

"Halle…"

She rolls her eyes. "Thank me _after_ you've gone to him."

"…yeah."

* * *

**Hearts**

_Mello: 12:00 p.m., January 27th, 2010 _

I pause before the door; there's no sound from within. He can't have drowned himself, can he? He wouldn't.

I knock twice lightly. "Can I come in?"

A moment ensues in which everything and nothing passes through my mind.

"Since when did you have to ask permission?"

I think about it. "Since you let me into your life and your heart." I almost cringe at the words, but they're true.

Another moment. "Come in," but there's no invitation in his voice. I turn the knob and enter.

He leans against the wall of the bath, his hunched back no different from his normal work posture, yet screaming unspeakable weariness instead of mere laziness. His face looks obliquely away from me. I approach and sit by the edge, setting the bowl on the ground and offering him the ice pack. He takes it and looks at it in a manner that suggests he's debating just dropping it in the water.

I think frantically of what to say that doesn't come from scripted TV dramas (do you want to talk about it? You can tell me anything). He doesn't give me a chance.

"Technically, you're right," he says, putting the ice up to his right eye.

I gaze at him questioningly but hopefully encouragingly.

"It was _my _choice to let you into my life. And after that, it was my choice to work with you on the Kira case, even though it was completely against my nature. I trusted a stranger, partly because I wanted to know you. You couldn't be any normal person, not the way I found you. Clearly, I didn't know what I was getting myself into."

What he got himself into…

"Without you, I would never have almost been killed by Kira."

"Matt," I say. "If you regret knowing me, I don't blame you. I—"

"I don't regret it," he says clearly.

Wait.

"I'm just thinking about how ironic it is that you're the one who deals me death and life in the same hand."

"So you're saying that life is a game of cards?" I guess.

"And every move is a gamble."

He falls silent and looks at the opposite wall, anywhere but me. We stay this way for over a minute. Then he looks at me and says, "Kiss me, Mello?"

I put a grape on my tongue and stick it out in what I hope is a tantalizing manner.

I probably look ridiculous.

"So this is how you plan to make me start eating healthy?" he says, looking magnificently unimpressed.

"Wun kith eh a hime," I say around my tongue.

He leans forward and eats the grape off my tongue. Somehow, we manage to osculate and consume the grape without chewing each other's tongues off. Clearly this is a great achievement for geniuses like us.

He smiles when we break apart, and we go through the rest of the grapes normally.

After some minutes of amiable silence, I ask, "So what's actually bothering you? I hardly think you could stand being a sap in a bathtub for as long as you have unless you were trying to avoid a certain conversation."

He puts the ice away in the soap dish. "Well, I don't know…maybe the fact that you seem to think you get to be the figurative seme now that I'm letting you be all fluffy with me?"

I lean in to kiss his less-swollen eye and tracing the side of his face with one finger. I take his lips again, the taste now sweet and tangy. "Emphasis there on you _letting _me," I remind him. "Although I suppose if sarcastic!Matt is back, we have nothing to worry about."

"Hm, I think we _do _have something to worry about," he murmurs, and his hand shoots up to suddenly seize my wrist and redirect my hand downwards…well, I sure hadn't noticed _that._

"It's been, what, two days, and you're this sensitive?" I vaguely stroke the inside of his thigh.

"Oh shut up, could _you_ ever go an hour without jumping me?"

The answer is yes, but beneath his teasing words, his smile isn't quite right. It's too effortfully seductive; he wants this too much. But if it's something I can give…

With added vigor, I reach down and slowly slide two fingers up and down, squeezing slightly as my other arm slings around his back, pulling him closer to me.

"No teasing," he mutters, already breathing irregularly.

"No whining," I retort, speeding up marginally.

"At least use your whole fucking hand."

"At least use the one iota of patience you were blessed with, Matt."

I grasp him fully and pump in earnest now, planting wet kisses from his earlobe to his shoulder. He grips my unoccupied hand with one of his own and the edge of the bath with the other and his knuckles are clenched and popping. For a moment, his eyes flash open, and I register more than just lust in them. Then they snap shut again, and he clutches at me desperately with both arms, clinging to me like he's been struck by lightning and I'm the only one who can ground him. In the moment he comes, I can feel all of his body, tense and loaded like a hair trigger.

Too tense.

I stroke him gently a final few times and remove my hand, swilling in the clouded water before I reach to raise his head from my shoulder.

"Matt?" I question softly of shut eyes. He's shaking, and not just from post-orgasm chills. "Matt, don't shut me out again."

Fingers scrabble at mine, and I take them in hand; at least he's not pushing me away.

"You can't have missed me that much," I say. "What exactly happened to you in that cell?"

He looks up, and the pure gaze in his eyes nearly bowls me over, a gaze replete with lostness. In a voice hardly louder than the grave, he tells me.

His hands are still in mine, so I refrain from clenching my fists and crushing his fingers. My heart rages at every wrong perpetrated on him and every scar he's left with.

Scars that love, not anger, will heal.

I still wish I'd killed the woman more horribly, though. Hell would be nothing in comparison.

But Matt…Matt needs me. I need him.

"Matt…" I press my lips to his forehead. "You're mine. Nothing will ever change that. I'll never let you go."

He raises his eyes to mine, and I kiss him on the lips, needing to give him more of me for what's been taken away.

"Mello," he murmurs.

"Hm?"

"…I'm starting to prune."

Oh, Matt. "I take it we should move on to a drier locale?"

"Yes, please."

* * *

**Oratorio in Polar Coordinates**

_Matt: 12:30 p.m., January 27th, 2010 _

He lifts me from the water, and in that moment, he is the one who gives me life in every possible meaning (well, bar the most literal one).

**In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. (John 1:1)**

He's my world, and he's my word. The only one that matters: Mello.

I can't decide if there are more religious motifs or puns here, whether I should laugh or be burned as a heretic, but I figure Mello wouldn't let anyone do that to me.

'Cause you see, _this _is heaven, where Mello is, next to his beating heart, and it's home.

He lays me down on top of the covers and tugs his shirt off, looking almost apologetic that the bed isn't pre-warmed. He doesn't realize that all I need is him and his blazing vitality and his impassioned body, which I pull down to rest snugly against me.

"Mmmm, Mello," I murmur senselessly as his hands and lips trail over me. His hands, his lips, his teeth, his tongue, his nose, his breath, his hair, he's everywhere at once—all the more evidence to prove he's my god.

I am having way too much fun with this metaphor.

He sits up suddenly. "There is a full cooler of ice in the bathroom." He sounds very serious.

"Your point being?"

"Waste not, want not," he says pithily. He vaults off the bed and bounces from the room; I have only a moment to lament his loss before he returns, box of ice in hand and a contrastingly sultry sway in his hips…

(…those pants really need to come off…)

…and then I'm face down, and he's on top of me, tracing curves on my back with the corner of an ice cube.

"Mello, ah, that's cold!"

"Well, I see you're not a genius for nothing," he smirks. "Good job, you know hot from cold. Can you tell me what I'm writing?"

I can't actually tell, but there aren't many words worth inscribing on my body, except…"Your name."

"So you'll never forget it."

I feel his breath against me, and his tongue darts out to follow the path of the ice across my skin. I try to relax, but his icy scrawls and hot breath have me pressing into the sheets desperately. Goosebumps rise from the base of my neck to my tailbone; I moan involuntarily as his tongue dips unexpectedly lower. The cold bites and embraces at the same time—my nerves don't know how to respond and just send haywire sensations of inexplicable pleasure.

"Mello…ah, Mello, please…" I don't even know what I'm begging for; my mind is so clouded with desire.

"You like this, Matt?"

"Yes…yes, oh god—"

"Save yourself," he whispers seductively. "I'm not even close to done with you."

He withdraws and tugs me around so that I lie face up, and now I'm shuddering and trembling under his lips as he spreads a trail of crushed ice down my torso and laps it up.

"You know what I usually hate?" I force out.

"Foreplay," he replies without hesitation.

"Yeah," I say as pointedly as I can between little hitches in my breath caused by his insufferable tongue.

"Your point being?"

"…don't make me say it." I'm almost embarrassed at how whiny I sound, but…fuck that.

"I won't," he smirks. "You can wait."

What. No.

He's down past my navel now, and I realize his intention a moment before the action—

Oh god. I can't stay still; my hips jerk upwards as his mouth closes around me, ice cold yet much too hot. His tongue flicks playfully and drives me mad. God, Mello…he slams down on me hard now, and it's more hot than cold, and I can't hold back much longer—

He slows suddenly, now languorously bobbing up and down, and my pleas are wordless, tugging at his hair, but he smiles around me and shakes his head.

It's too much. Everything he does to me is too much and yet exactly what I need. So I let him take over, surrender into the strength of his arms and the fullness of his body. His breath on my neck, his chest against my back, one arm under my shoulders and one over my waist, holding me tightly. He takes me gently, tenderly, as if he's afraid of breaking me.

Don't you know, Mello? You're making me whole again.

**He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. (Psalm 147:3)**

Before he existed, I had a heart, I guess. It just didn't have anything in it besides good old type O. Then he existed, and he made my heart so full of feeling that it burst, like new wine in old wineskins, and I have no idea where the blood went, and I am trying too hard with this mixed metaphor.

I really don't have time to allegorize as he rubs against something deep inside me that makes me die and go to heaven and come back several times. Over and over, his arms granting me passage, his voice urging me on, not pushing me over the edge of a cliff but guiding me softly home to bliss and oblivion with him.

The last words I register before a comfortable nightfall claims me are his: I love you.

I try to say them back; they come out muffled with exhaustion, but I'm sure he understands.

I love you too.

* * *

**A/N: **Yay for massive amounts of saccharine and awk!firstpersonPOVsex :P Anyways, review, please?


	11. Stand Inside Your Love

**Chapter Eleven: Stand Inside Your Love**

**A/N: **The last chapter is here, but the road goes ever on and on...(**_Hobbit _fans? _ANYONE?!_**) So anyways, keep me on your alerts, and there may be more scrumptious Matt/Mello to come over the holidays.

I don't own _Death Note_. Chapter title is from the Smashing Pumpkins song of the same name. Expand your musical horizons, children :P

* * *

**Matrimony**

_Mello: 10:30 a.m., January 28th, 2010 _

I wake before he does, not surprising considering how many hours of sleep he'll need to recover from what he's suffered. He lies just as he did when we fell asleep: half on his right side, facing me, chest to chest and limbs entangled, bodies and hearts bared.

This would normally be the time when I start sentimentalizing about how beautiful he is, waking and sleeping, and how wonderful it is to have him. More pressing concerns await me, however, as my stomach growls, and I think of what clamorous protestations Matt's stomach might be making if he were awake. Slowly, reluctantly, I begin the laborious process of separating myself from Matt and locating sustenance. I put on yesterday's pants (it _was _yesterday; we've slept for almost a whole day) and notice a note by the door.

A _note, _my mind supplies insidiously.

Near's handwriting hasn't changed over the years; the same impeccable typescript meets my eyes as I read.

_Mello: _(I register the conspicuous absence of 'dear')

_We will be leaving for Yellow Box at 11:30 a.m. If you wish to rendezvous there, please plan on arriving between 2 and 2:30 p.m. That way, Kira and X-Kira will have already been apprehended._

_After you and Matt have read this note, please destroy it. I trust you know its evils well enough by now to avoid falling prey to its lure._

_If you open the door at this moment, you will find everything you need._

_Please convey my wishes for a quick recovery to Matt._

I look down at the paper in my hands. I never thought I'd touch this again.

It's just a piece of paper, I tell myself. It's only what people do with it that makes it terrible.

I pocket the note, open the door, and almost step on a heavily laden breakfast tray. I'm willing to bet this whole room service thing was Halle's contribution. At least there's chocolate, I note approvingly. A pair of crutches for Matt leans against the opposite wall.

"Hm," I say aloud. I'm sure the cameras in the hallway are still running surveillance. "You've still got a ways to go before you can start running your own vacation resort, Halle. How am I supposed to carry all this stuff off the floor into the room without the door open for me?"

No answer, but I guess that would really be too much.

"I'm joking. Even I don't have such bad taste as to bite the hand that feeds."

Smiling minutely, I grab the crutches and tray and almost gracefully make it back into the room.

Matt looks slightly awake; a few tufts of hair peek out from the covers, but an arm shifts underneath, and I know he'll require feeding. I set the tray down on my side of the bed and apply my lips to one visible ear.

"Wake up, love, and I'll treat you to the all-American married couple's dream: breakfast in bed."

He's more awake than I thought, because suddenly he sits up straight and nearly knocks my jaw off in his eagerness to partake.

"Good morning to you, too," he says cheerily to my bemused expression. I just shake my head and proceed to stuff him with waffles and syrup.

Several gluttonous minutes later, I recall the note in my pocket and hand it to him. "Some breakfast literature for you."

He scans the note without asking who it's from; Near's liquid nitrogen tone is as idiosyncratic as his handwriting.

"So this is the note," he says, staring at the paper.

"Yes, part of the one Gevanni filched from Mikami." There's no need to explain when we both know, but we take pleasure in just speaking and knowing that the other hears.

"Do you want to go?" he asks.

It's like a birthday party, or a movie date, things out of a normal person's life, but instead we're going to Kira's downfall.

"Of course," I say immediately, but then… "I'm just worried that it won't be safe."

His eyes say: "All these times we've almost died and you worry about _safety?"_

"I just don't want there to be some altercation and…you know, you couldn't make it out in time," I say somberly.

"Have a little faith, Mello," he teases, drinking milk straight from the creamer. I think of L and tea and coffee and cringe.

"Yeah…" I say absently, pulling at a loose thread. "You're right; it'll be fine."

"By the way, I'm dying to know how you survived. Did Takada not have any killing paper after all?"

I think about the gun, before I knew its double use, and tell him. He doesn't question my sanity or search for alternative explanations; by now, we've come to accept the impossible as otherwise. Instead, he reaches over and delicately thumbs my cheek, wordlessly reaffirming his affections. "I'm glad," is all he says.

'That you're alive' goes without saying, but even that is too little to convey. 'That you're alive, that this all turned out the way it did, that this is all over.'

I shrug and stick out my tongue to lick his hand; he withdraws it quickly. "Anyways, we need to get rid of this," I say. "I don't suppose you've still got your lighter on you…"

I realize too late he's got _nothing _on; he shrugs and dunks the note in the half full coffee pot.

That works too.

* * *

**One Soul in Two Bodies**

_Matt: 1:30 p.m., January 28th, 2010_

I sit on the edge of the bed, dressed and ready to go, but for one thing.

"I haven't stood up and walked since the moment they shot me down," I say. "That's over two days."

Mello looks over from where he's fussing with his stuck vest zipper (leather is back in style). "Are you sure you haven't forgotten how? You and Near could go to physical therapy together," he says jokingly. Then, seriously, "Will the crutches be ok? I mean, if they're not comfortable, I'm sure we could locate a wheelchair somewhere in this place for you."

God, no. No wheelchair. Crutches, even…

"Maybe just one," I think aloud, reaching for the metal contraptions beside me. I tuck one under my left arm and think about it.

It's perfectly logical for Mello to raise me up in every sense. I'm healing now.

I stand, and it's only with a slight quaver in my step that I clunk my way over to where he's standing and kiss him. Surprised but obviously pleased, he kisses back, and it irks me that I can only use one hand to hold him, but it's ok.

He produces a pair of sunglasses from somewhere, and I recall the bullet that glanced my goggles and almost put out my eye. He slides them over my eyes, and everything is dark and clear.

For all his black leather, his image will always be brighter than anything else.

Mello.

XXX

We stand before the entrance, and clearly Near is a great motivational speaker, because we can hear his voice faintly through the gap in the door, yet no one stirs nor seems to hear us outside. I don't know what we're waiting for, but the slight rise and fall of the voice within reaches a crescendo, and at last we hear what he's saying:

"Neither Mello nor I alone could hold the name of L, but together…we can equal L. Together, we can surpass L!"

That's our cue to enter.

"Someone say my name?" Mello asks as the door creaks open.

Of course Mello would take it on himself to spout the devil's lines on the stage of this world.

The door grinds to a halt, fully revealing the assembled. The SPK and Mogi stand to the left. Near crouches on the ground, maneuvering his finger puppets around a garish mask that I realize is supposed to be L. Rester surveys us impassively, Gevanni blinks once in greeting, and Halle almost beams. Almost. There is still much to be resolved.

The NPA is gathered on the right, Aizawa and two others whose names elude me, and the shinigami lingers behind them. They seem to be a diverse race; Mello's pictures of the shinigami whose note he had in the mafia looked nothing like this one. Somehow, it's not as shocking as the self-acclaimed death god in the room…

…Light Yagami. It's him, without a doubt, in the tailored beige suit that he wears as perfectly as he wears the name of L. But he's crumbling; it's obvious from the way his stance is ramrod straight and still more perfect than ever. He can't afford to relax now. He's not sure he can win now, not after the blunders he and his tool have made. Speaking of whom, Mikami is handcuffed and divested of the fake note, which lies beside Near and the real one. The once-proud lawyer stands with his head bowed, not so much restrained as held up by Rester, bereft of the will to continue. But he looks up as my eyes land on him, and ours connect. He gasps as he recognizes me, his face falls forward again, and he mutters brokenly, words in Japanese that I don't catch, but they carry the sound of despair and brokenness. I turn my eyes away.

"Mello and Matt, thank you for joining us," Near says, never looking up from his props. "It would have been disrespectful to continue talking about you behind your backs."

Mello snorts beside me, clearly doubting Near's manners. Yagami chooses this moment to interrupt.

"Mihael Keehl," he hisses. "It's a pleasure to finally be able to put a face to the name. Perhaps you can't say the same to me, if only because I didn't kill your father."

I shudder at the pure malintent in his voice. Mello shifts closer to me, almost as if he wants to put himself between me and Yagami, as if he's not the one who could be killed in the blink of an eye.

What is Yagami doing, though, bringing up past grievances now? Does he think his men will turn on Mello for killing the police chief when he himself is the one they've been trying to arrest for years?

He's really that desperate.

Mello doesn't falter as he shoots back, "I killed your father, yes, and your honorable chief." He speaks to all the Japanese task force. "So let he among you who does not love his own life be the first to shoot me."

They shift uneasily at his charged words, but no one moves to raise a hand against him. Yagami watches him still more closely from where he stands by the wall, backed into a corner.

"It was me or him in that room," Mello says. "I know that doesn't mean a thing to any of you, but do you think one death that wronged Kira will right the thousands of wrongs he committed? Have you ever directly killed anyone to save your own life, Kira?"

Yagami says nothing, so Mello asks him for the punch line. "You haven't denied anything I've said. Would you like to make your excuses now?"

For a moment, I think he won't reply, but suddenly he hits the ground, and the sounds issuing from him aren't…human. Feral laughter gurgles in his throat; it racks his hunched body with convulsions, and he rises to deliver the fated words: "That's right. I am Kira."

Near smirks; Mello, for once, is stoic. The task force looks thunderstruck; it's one thing for the evidence to be staring you in the face and quite another for the truth to be so openly admitted.

"Will you kill me here?" he launches onward. "Listen," and his hands command it. "I am Kira, and also…the god of the new world."

And here we go…

"I am justice. I am mankind's hope," he says. "You," and he speaks to Mello and Near, L's successors, "just want the personal satisfaction of killing Kira."

"The world is still rotten," he says. "The evil must be destroyed, from its roots up. Those who are evil die. Those who are good see that this is right. They realize that they have the right to be happy, and that destroying evil lets them do that."

He throws his head back, apparently overcome by the force of his own conviction. "Someone had to do it. I was the only one who _could! _It was the only way to make things right! I was _chosen _to change this world, to save it!

"Think about it. Do you want to return to that ugly world of evil? Because that's what will happen if you kill me now, just for the sake of your own ego. You will have killed God…you will have written the death of the world."

He gets down from his soapbox and awaits the riposte. Mello cedes this one to Near.

"No," Near says bluntly. "You are just a murderer."

Tell him, Near.

"Even if God existed, I would ask myself whether he was right or wrong. I would use my own rational capacities to figure out what I should believe, and what I believe is that you are evil, and that you certainly are not God."

"Accept it, Kira," Mello breaks in. "You are not God. God doesn't lose, and you have."

Yagami (and I wonder why I still call him that) spares them both a loathing glance and starts to pace deliberately. His steps are measured and metronomical, as if ticking in time to the cogs in his mind turning, planning…

Planning what? He has nothing left.

"Near." He speaks like he's thinking about something else, like conversation is just a distraction. "The note you took from Mikami, and the note Aizawa brought today…how do you know they're real?"

Near opens his eyes a fraction wider.

"Yours must be real, because you've seen Ryuk. But you should test the one Aizawa is carrying, shouldn't you? Write my name or Mikami's down."

"I am sure the note is real," Near states. "But even if they are not, I have no intention of killing you. Everything that has transpired here will be kept a secret, and you will be put away for good."

Yagami is silent. This conversation is irrelevant.

"Well, it can't hurt to try, can it?" he repeats, aiming his steps away, towards the darkest corner. "I'm sure _Mello _wouldn't hesitate to write my name."

At this, he looks back straight at Mello, and I know what's going to happen before it does—

"It's a hidden note!" Rester shouts, but even as the others tumble forward in disorder, my gun is in my right hand, and I pull the trigger.

It all happens automatically; the shot rings out, Yagami shrieks, the pen flies away, and his hand dangles limply, an open watch on his wrist, and if I could read the paper from here, it would say 'Mihael—'

No. How dare you.

The SPK and NPA have drawn their guns as well; Mello, for once, has not. I'm focused on Yagami flailing around clutching his hand, but from the corner of my eye, Mello's staring at me like…like what?

Yagami speaks; he _howls. _"You bastard! Who do you think you are?! Who do you think you just shot?!"

"Take it like a man, Kira," I snarl; my own hatred shocks me in a distant way. "Because you're not God; you're just a man. Or are you even? You're a fucking demon, but I will not let you kill Mello!"

My hands are shaking with fury, and I doubt my aim even as the bastard scrabbles for his paper and tries to kill Mello with his blood. Suddenly Mello is behind me, both of his hands steadying mine, and we open fire once, twice, three times; I would have continued shooting Kira into an unrecognizable bloody carcass, but Mello tugs the gun from my grip and wraps his arms around me.

"Matt, calm down," he whispers as the miniature uproar swells around us. "I'm all right; he didn't get my whole name down. I'm ok; you're ok. We made it, Matt."

I'm still breathing hard, tense and strung, but I relax a bit and squeeze Mello's hand to show I've heard him. He keeps holding me as we watch Yagami's theatrics and pathetic appeals to crutches that can no longer hold him up.

…his last resort? The death god.

"_You_ can write their names, Ryuk!" Yagami screeches like a wild thing. "Write them down, Ryuk, write them now!"

The death god looks at the human 'god' and seems to be…reminiscing. With oddly smooth movements, it withdraws its notebook and pen, and the smile on Yagami's blood-streaked face grows still more deranged.

Everyone except Near, Mello, and I (well, and Mikami) opens fire on the death god, but it merely shimmers in the air for a moment as the bullets go straight through.

It's not really going to write our names, is it? If it were willing to, it would have done so long ago. Yagami seems to think otherwise; in a choked, bloodcurdling snarl, he bellows his triumph even as he crawls in agony, rejoicing that his faithful death god has suddenly sprouted a sense of altruism and is going to write everyone's names—

"You're wrong, Light," it says. "The one whose name will be written down…is you."

If Yagami hadn't lost his dignity already, he might have been repulsed by what he'd been reduced to: a dying animal clawing at its executioner's knees, pleading with stone ears and struggling until the last.

A heart beat once, and then no more. The silence lasts only a moment before it is split by another inhuman scream. Mikami's fountain pen has found its sheath in his heart.

(O happy dagger…)

After that, all is ordered chaos. The NPA confer among themselves; one member, who looks to be the youngest and least world-weary, remains on the floor staring at his knees, apparently too overwhelmed by these events. Aizawa steps forward and speaks quietly to Near; I'm not really listening. The bodies are covered; the NPA leave with theirs, and after a moment, Rester and Gevanni follow carrying the other. Unheeded by all, the death god melts away through the ceiling, its ghastly eyes remembering still the last name it wrote.

It's quiet. Near does not get up, but his hands cease to move. Mello still holds me barnacle-like from behind, making things extremely awkward as Halle approaches and suddenly envelopes us both in a hug. Weirdly, Mello doesn't seem to mind; he just burrows closer to me and to Halle. So I relax too, despite how bizarre it is, standing here embracing in a dank, abandoned warehouse that smells of blood and gunpowder.

"You idiots," she says shakily when she finally lets us go. "You have no idea how glad I am that you're here."

For once, I have no clever words to parry hers. I figure they're not really necessary here.

I look past her towards the diminutive figure on the ground. "Near."

He looks up, bemused, but I see something less than passive indifference in his expression at our affectionate display.

"Come here."

No one ever said he _couldn't _walk.

Without a word, he stands, slowly but surely, and takes deft, tiny steps in his socks until he stands about three feet from me, hesitant and unsure.

I don't want to give him a non-Kira induced heart attack, so instead of hugging him, I settle for ruffling his hair and setting a hand on his shoulder. "Near…you and Mello need to fucking make up so you can both go back to solving cases so people won't think L's gone completely senile."

Near blinks; Mello inhales sharply. Clearly, neither of them was expecting this. Halle smiles. Then, to my surprise, Mello reaches over and gently pats the soft white hair.

"Hey, Near…look," he says haltingly, one hand still resting on the fluff. "I'm fine with you being L, because I've found my other half as M."

Oh god. This is probably so sweet that even L would puke. Halle almost giggles. I feel like we're in on a joke that the two geniuses can't begin to comprehend.

"So I guess we can just divide up our cases and call each other if necessary. I mean, it's fine if you'd rather call Matt, and uh…I assume Halle will be staying with you until you get back to Wammy's, so we can keep in touch…?"

"I have no objection to you or your suggestions, Mello, but would you mind removing your hand from my head? It's obstructing my deductive capacities by—"

"Forty percent, I know," Mello says. "That was L's favorite number too."

They share a look that Halle and I don't catch this time, and then it's gone, and we're once more L versus M.

Near resumes. "Gevanni will be staying on as my agent; Lidner and Rester are free to pop in and out as their work permits. Your concern is appreciated, Mello, but I will not be alone."

That's kind of cute, I think. It's as close as we'll get to a happy ending in a story like ours.

"Well, uh, I guess we won't be sticking around, then," I say in a painful attempt at closing off the conversation. "We've got a flight to catch at five."

"Yeah, it's back to the City of Angels for us," Mello says, as eager as I am to leave. "We'll be in touch."

As we bid our farewells to the other two and make our way out, I think about everything the world may hurl at us from this day on. Honestly, though: after everything Mello and I have been through, there's nothing we can't stand.

Together.

* * *

**A/N:** And so we end with the nicely unround number of eleven. This is where I start thanking my parents, friends, mentors, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, God, dog, first grade English teacher, imaginary friends, the chair in which I sit to write my stories, etc., for helping me make it to the end of this story. But I seem to be forgetting someone...

Fuck, I gotta stop making a production out of this note. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ to my dear readers, for sticking with _That Is the Question _and giving this unassuming little author a chance. And to my charming reviewers, anonymous or otherwise, for the gift of words and occasional incoherence, which speaks almost but not quite as much as words.

Somehow thanks looks less sincere when it's all in good punctuation and capitalization sans emoticons and everything, but I mean it. Thank you.

The end.


End file.
